Six Months
by Lawson227
Summary: What's happened to Karen in the six months since Harris Trout suspended her? Carlton suspects it's nothing good. Then again, not like his life has been a bed of roses, but then, when is it ever? This is Karlton. Yes, again. What can I say? I like them together. If you couldn't tell from the title of the story, post-"No Trout About It" COMPLETE
1. Six Months

**Six Months**

Usual disclaimers. I own nothing _psych_. After the way this season took a header, I have no real wish to own _psych_ as a whole, but I will happily abscond with Carlton and Karen. The rest of the lot of them can muddle through on their own.

I don't even know why I'm writing this, but the idea crawled into my brain and wouldn't let go so I figure I'll write it out and release it out into the wild to do what it will. Not sure where this is going or at what pace it will progress, so I apologize ahead of time.

But not for it being Karlton. That, I will never apologize for.

* * *

Six months.

She stared sightlessly through the windshield, squeezing the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened and the leather chafed her palms.

Honestly, she'd almost welcomed Trout's heavy-handed—and most-assuredly overkill—dictates, packing her personal effects with a speed that had startled even the eccentric consultant and _Interim_ Police Chief. Ha. Interim. Let him see how much he liked that label.

He probably wouldn't give a damn.

It probably wouldn't be "Interim" for nearly two years, that was for damned sure. Whether it had anything to do with her return or not.

Not that she gave a damn.

Not right now.

Six months should have been a grace period, she thought. Should have given her ample time to repair so much of what had worn to the point of threadbare. Instead, six months had proven more than enough time to expose more weaknesses than even previously realized. Had strained the fabric of her life until it gave way and split, too fragile and tattered to be repaired or even support a patch.

"Ma'am, just stay calm, we'll get you out of here in no time. In the meantime, are you all ri— _Karen_?"

Karen blinked, her surroundings coming into focus. Cocking her head, she studied the fine network of cracks that formed a web across her windshield, the steam rising from the accordioned hood of her car, the crumpled mass of the airbag resting in her lap. Along with her dispassionate review of the visual cues, she registered physical cues: her arms aching with strain, a sharp, constricting pain across her chest, wet warmth trickling along her hairline and threatening her eye. Before she could do much more than blink in defense, a flash of white appeared in her peripheral vision accompanied by a reassuringly familiar scent of sandalwood accompanied by a faint whiff of the ocean.

She'd know that scent anywhere, although if asked before this moment, she would have claimed utter cluelessness. And believed it.

Pressure and a dull throb obliterated the warmth and made her hiss.

"I know it hurts," the low, familiar voice said, "but I need to see how bad this is. Not too bad," he continued, almost more to himself. An instant later he asked, "Can you hold it?"

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she nodded, wincing slightly at the increased throbbing in her head.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

Oh, she was. But not the way he meant. Still silent, she shook her head.

"Can you move your extremities?"

Always a cop, first and foremost. Never had she been more grateful for that. It gave them both something familiar to cling to in this most unfamiliar of situations.

Again, she nodded, keeping her gaze focused on the deflated remains of the airbag.

"Seatbelt's jammed—I'm going to cut you loose, so just stay completely still, okay?"

Once more she nodded, just a single, small inclination, but she knew it was enough. It had always served as more than enough between them.

Another flash, this time of silver, appeared at the edges of her peripheral vision, followed by a momentary intense pressure that caused pain to bloom across her chest and that forced a yelp that had him swearing softly under his breath. An instant later, the distinctive rip of fabric tearing resonated, immediately followed by the sheer relief of being able to draw a full, unrestricted breath, albeit not without more of the same pain in her chest that left her nearly crying out again. Closing her eyes tight, she attempted to suppress it, tried not to show any more weakness than she already had. A low groan nevertheless managed to escape.

Little victories. At this point, she'd take it. She had precious little left after all.

"Karen, what hurts? Come on, talk to me."

But she couldn't talk. There weren't enough words for her to explain everything that hurt and how much it hurt. She couldn't do anything more than push the folds of the airbag out of the way, turn in the seat, and fall into arms she instinctively knew would catch her.

Only then did she trust herself to speak.

And all she could manage was a single word.

"Carlton."


	2. Time

**Time**

* * *

Carlton had staked his post out almost from the moment they'd arrived. Out of the way, unobtrusive, yet with a clear view of everything and readily available to answer any questions directed his way as officer of record. In addition to maintaining distance, he also sat quietly—a state that likely struck her as extremely out of character given the circumstances, or rather, _would_ if she were actually aware of his continued presence—rapidly filling out the necessary paperwork. Technically, his shift was over and he wanted to be able to simply drop the forms off and sign the hell out on the way to… wherever she'd need him to take her.

It would fall to him, he knew, because to the best of his knowledge, she'd made no move to contact anyone and perhaps more tellingly, not a single soul had appeared in the three hours since they'd arrived at the hospital.

There was a story there. What, exactly it was, he didn't know, but gut instinct told him it wasn't good.

"You're in uniform."

The words were quiet, uttered in the same sort of dispassionate tone one might use to observe the neighbors had planted new shrubbery or that Victoria had once used to muse whether or not aqua was a good color for the bedroom walls. Never mind they'd been in the midst of an activity during which the color of the walls should have been the last thing on her mind.

He still had no clue what the hell color she'd ultimately chosen for the walls.

Glancing up from his clipboard he noted the curtain had been drawn far enough back to reveal her studying him from her position perched on the edge of the gurney.

With anyone else, he'd bark out some acid-tinged retort about stating the obvious, but not with her. Not simply because he still—_always_—would consider her his boss, not to mention, over the past eight years she'd more than earned his respect, and not just because she'd just been through a traumatic experience, but because… well, because.

"I am." And even though she hadn't asked and he wasn't certain she'd even care, he elaborated, "Trout knocked me down to desk duty."

Her face remained still though slight telltale creases appeared at the corners of her eyes. "But you're not at a desk."

"Too accessible."

She cocked her head, hair falling away to reveal the stark white bandage shielding the stitches she'd required. "Too accessible?" she repeated. Her tone remained somewhat distant, but there was more of… _her_ in it, prompting him to continue.

"Yeah, detectives kept coming by to talk to me."

To ask his advice, of all things. Miller and Dobson had been the first. Tentative, as if terrified he might snarl or draw his weapon—and he would have, too—but something in their expressions had stifled both of those natural reactions. Bemused, Carlton had answered their questions regarding a former case of his they'd inherited, then promptly put it out of his mind as he went back to answering phones and the stultifying drudgery of filling out requisition forms. Then a couple days later, another detective had approached, then another, and another. A steady stream of them, stopping by to ask his advice on who they might tap as a C.I. or the best way to approach questioning a particular suspect or did he think they were on the right track with a particular investigation.

At first, he was confused. Most of the people under his command had hated him. He'd expected they would have had doughnuts and coffee celebrating his demotion had it not been for the fact that Trout had banned doughnuts from the precinct and Balance bars just didn't carry with them the same joyous air of _Ding dong the bastard's gone!_

Then his bruised ego had reveled in the attention. Of _course_ they couldn't function without him. About damned time they figured it out. As far as appreciation, well, better late than never, right?

After nearly two weeks, however, he realized the reality lay somewhere in between: as much as they might have hated him, they hated Trout more. A hell of a lot more.

As Miller had confided, in a rare moment of camaraderie, Carlton might be a bastard, but at least every individual on the detective's squad knew where they stood with him—second to the job and solving their cases which _always_ came first.

Trout, however, being no one's dummy, quickly caught on to the tacit show of solidarity in which the detectives were engaging, but rather than punish them as a whole for what he no doubt considered to be gross insubordination, took his ire out on Carlton—again.

"Trout figured it was best to get me the hell out of the building, so he bumped me over to patrol and made certain I was assigned the most far-reaching routes." Carlton shrugged. "I think he might have considered having me patrol Crack Row, but it was too risky."

"I hardly think he'd be concerned for your safety."

Carlton chuckled. "He couldn't give a damn about my safety—more my former position and notoriety. The risk I might make a high-profile bust that would land me positive publicity was too high. Couldn't have that. Of course," he added matter-of-factly, "the probability that a dealer looking to score some revenge could also take me out was also raised, so I'm honestly kind of shocked he didn't decide to roll the dice."

Karen paled suddenly and swayed on the gurney's edge, prompting him to drop the clipboard to the floor and close the distance between them. Gently, because he wasn't sure where, exactly she hurt most, other than probably everywhere, he grasped her upper arms.

"Hey," he murmured, "you all right?"

And immediately felt stupid. Of course she wasn't all right. She'd just been in a high impact car accident—the result of swerving to avoid a squirrel or rabbit that had darted in front of her car. The lone witnesses—a pair of unwashed hippies hiking the bluff running parallel to the road and taking pictures couldn't be sure. Just that something had darted from the brush and just as quickly taken off, reinforcing his opinion that the furry vermin were evil and needed to be contained. Perhaps in Trout's underwear drawer.

And of course she wasn't all right, because he knew there had to be more behind her losing control of her vehicle enough to spin out until she wound up wedged in a copse of trees than vindictive furry vermin. Something that had sober, responsible Karen Vick driving well over the posted speed limit on the sharply curving and extremely remote Mountain Drive.

But he let her answer "Fine," and merely stood there, hands gently grasping her upper arms until he felt her steady.

"Don't. Please."

He stared down at her hands, one wrist wrapped in a soft brace, holding his. For someone who was clearly in pain and quite possibly already groggy from pain medication, she still had outstanding reflexes, grabbing hold of his hands before they'd fully slipped from her arms.

More proof that whatever was going on in her head was bad.

_The reflexes or the holding onto _your_ hands like her life depends on it? The same way she fell into your arms when you cut her free?_

_Either. Both. Shut up._

"Trout's an ass."

"You'll get no argument from me there." He stood very still, not certain what he should do.

"I know you want to show him up—expose him for the grandstanding idiot he is—but promise you won't be reckless."

Okay, now—wait a minute. The concern was touching—but odd. Okay, yeah, she'd worried for his safety in the past, but that was when she'd actively sort of _had_ to. Now, though... yeah. Definitely odd. But touching. And definitely real, considering how she continued to cling to his hands.

"Kind of tough to do when I'm relegated out to the sticks." He hesitated, then spoke his mind because when had he not? Especially with her. "You provided the most excitement I've experienced in six months." And even though he knew it was stupid, he couldn't keep an edge of anger from creeping into his voice. "That kind of excitement I could do without, you know. You scared the hell out of me, Karen."

He couldn't be entirely sure, but he though he heard an impossibly soft, "Me, too."

As he continued standing there, vibrating with barely restrained agitation, her thumbs began a gentle, soothing motion across the backs of his hands. An instant later, she glanced down, then up, eyes wide and dark.

"Your wedding band."

Tension stilled the agitation. "Long story."

She stared up at him, the fragile skin beneath her eyes smudged purplish-blue, on one side extending into a mottled bruise surrounding an angry red abrasion marring one of her sharply etched cheekbones. For a brief, irrational moment he found himself hacked at the airbag for having hurt her, even as his sane mind recognized it as a small price to pay for saving her from greater injury—

Or worse.

"Carlton?"

He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth, seeing again the sharp drop off a mere hundred yards from the trees that had caught her car.

"Yeah?"

Slowly, he felt her turn her hands in his. As she did, he felt the fabric of the brace drag against his skin—and nothing else. Startled, but not really, he stared down, noting the smooth, bare expanse of her hands.

"I've got time."


	3. Long Stories Short—or Not

**Long Stories, Short… or Not**

**AN: **The story appears to be evolving very quietly and very slowly. For those of you sticking with it—thank you.

* * *

Safely ensconced in Carlton's Fusion, Karen watched him disappear into the building she'd called home for so long. Funny how she hadn't missed it—much. Certainly not in the beginning. After a while, however—well… yeah. She still hadn't missed it—not exactly. She certainly hadn't missed the paperwork and the meetings and the squabbling and the bureaucracy and the politics and she sure as hell hadn't missed Shawn Spencer and his idiot antics but…

After a while, she'd missed having somewhere to go.

And later still…

Well. Yeah.

Head throbbing anew, she slumped further back into the surprisingly comfortable seats and closed her eyes, grateful for the shady spot Carlton had claimed at the far end of the parking lot. Not quite his reserved spot by the front entrance—since Trout had confiscated that too, the bastard—but given her current circumstances, she couldn't claim to be too upset by the remote location and knew in this case, Carlton wasn't either. Of course, there wouldn't have been anything to worry about if he hadn't insisted on taking responsibility for getting her home. Despite their oddly intimate exchange in the E.R., she hadn't expected anything to actually come of it—certainly not that he'd expect to take her home and you know, she _was_ quite capable of calling a cab, thank you—but it had been a moot point as far as the hardheaded _man_ was concerned. He'd silenced her protests before they'd even fully formed with a single, quelling blue glance and frankly, she'd been too tired and sore and heartsick to argue. And honestly more than a little bit grateful she could put off facing her demons and failures—if only for a few minutes.

Still, though, she'd assumed he'd simply drop her off on his way back to the station. Right. After all these years, one would think she would have learned to never make assumptions where Carlton Lassiter was concerned. By the time she'd realized where they were headed, they were practically pulling into the parking lot.

_"I need to sign the cruiser back in and drop off the paperwork or else Trout will be on my ass."_

_"Carlton, this really isn't necessary—" _

_"I'll only be a few minutes." He'd resolutely ignored her, transferring her belongings from the cruiser to the backseat of his car. _

_"Honestly—"_

_He looked up then, meeting her gaze across the car's roof. "Do you really want to be alone?" he'd asked, his voice quiet, yet blunt._

_If she said yes, she knew he'd take her straight home and leave. He might even be relieved, except… she was getting the impression… not. _She_ would definitely be spared being his burden any longer, except he hadn't made her feel that way—not for an instant._

_And she knew, based on what she'd already gleaned from their brief exchange in the emergency room, that it was a question he asked of her because it was a state in which he'd found himself of late._

_A state he thought he'd left behind, not that long ago. _

_God, he'd been _so_ happy._

_Now, he wasn't. _

_In his way, he was reaching out and though he'd never ask… he was asking._

_"No. I don't."_

_He blinked and while outwardly, his expression remained set in its familiar stern lines, she nevertheless sensed an almost imperceptible softening an instant before he quietly said, "I've got time."_

_The gift of her own words and an unequivocal end to the conversation._

God knew, Carlton had horrendous people skills with respect to interaction, but more often than not, he _knew_ people. Or at the very least, it would appear, he knew her. Oh, Irony, what a caustic bitch she was.

The driver's side door opened as she was rubbing her forehead, not so much to alleviate the low-grade throbbing she'd almost gotten used to, but more out of an effort to figure out where it had all gone so horribly wrong.

"Is it worse?"

"No." She mustered a weak smile, grateful yet again for his timely appearance. She was just so damned sick of the tears.

"Because you know what the doctor said, that if it showed any signs of getting worse, you were to go right back—"

"It's not worse."

"And while normally, I'd assume they're just trying to get warm bodies in there so they can charge higher fees and drain resources—"

"_Carlton_—"

His jaw shut with an audible snap. He stared at her, brows drawn into a dark, straight line, blue eyes vivid, even in the dimness created by the combination of shade and the shadows cast by the oncoming twilight. Maybe they were even more vivid because of that, she thought somewhat irrationally—beacons, illuminating the car's shadowy interior.

"It's not worse," she said gently.

Their gazes held, one moment stretching into two, stretching into several, before he finally nodded and said, "Okay."

Still though, he hesitated and it wasn't until he glanced down that she realized why.

Heat flamed in her cheeks as she hurriedly withdrew her hand from his forearm and returned it to her lap.

"Sorry."

"For what?" he replied mildly as he turned to the steering wheel. "I was the one spewing inanities like Spencer on a smoothie high."

"No," she said quickly. "Never." She would elaborate more—on how Carlton Lassiter was the last person she'd ever compare to Shawn Spencer and how he was nothing like the "psychic" and thank God for that—but she was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion.

Besides—he'd never believe her.

"Thanks."

She looked up in time to see him shooting a quick, blue glance her direction before he turned his attention to backing out of the space.

Then again, maybe he would.

They rode in silence for a few minutes before she ventured a tentative, "How was it in there?"

"As far as I know, no one saw you."

"That's not what I meant."

Long fingers flexed around the steering wheel. "Trout was at some City Council Meeting—I think the Brylcreem-loving asshat actually likes the things—and no one else gives a damn about my comings and goings."

"What about O'Hara?" Clearly, they weren't currently working together, leaving Karen to briefly wonder just what sort of punishment Trout might have meted out to her, given her unique position as both Carlton's partner and Spencer's girlfriend.

He lifted a shoulder. "When I turned the paperwork in, I put it at the bottom of the stack, but considering how those old lady EMTs gossip, it's entirely possible news of your accident is already making the rounds of the various departments."

All right then, O'Hara as a topic was off-limits—at least for the time being. Honestly, Karen was okay with that. Juliet O'Hara hadn't exactly been her favorite person either during the last months of her tenure.

"I don't give a damn." At his raised eyebrow look, she elaborated, "About any gossip regarding my accident. It's not like I was driving under the influence." And she had the two separate tests—one at the scene by Carlton himself and one at the E.R.—noted in the accident report. In a way, it might give the gossips more to chew on, wondering what on earth could have caused her accident and what was she doing, driving up in the hills above Santa Barbara, but honestly, she really did not give a damn.

"Not of any substance at least," he said so softly, it was almost as if he was speaking to himself, but the compelling glance he sent her way let her know he intended her to hear it.

See? Knew her.

Which was why she wasn't surprised when they didn't immediately head toward her home, nor was she all that surprised when they turned in a direction away from his condo. The route he _did_ take, however, struck her as familiar, making the appearance of the small, neat Craftsman duplex only slightly surprising. She hadn't been there in years, but her memories of it were as sharp as if she'd only just set foot in it. _That_, was surprising.

"I didn't figure you'd want to go to your place right away."

She studied his profile, all shadowy planes and sharp angles. Giving nothing away. Except he already had.

"I really didn't."

"Is this... okay?"

"I'd tell you if it wasn't."

"Are you hungry?"

She thought about it. "Not really."

"Understandable." His fingers tapped a restless tattoo on the steering wheel. "Still, the pain meds should be taken with food. And you're going to be due to take more soon."

"Maybe I'll be ready to eat in a while." She didn't think so, but if Carlton, of all people, could make an effort, then so could she.

He nodded. "I can make us something or we can order in."

"Whatever's easiest." She smoothed her hands along her thighs, noticing for the first time the large tear in one pants leg. Not along the seam. No hope of being mended. Talk about your obvious metaphors.

"There's a twenty-four hour deli nearby—great sandwiches. Or maybe you'd prefer something more substantial. There's an Italian place—"

"We can figure it out." As he nodded and fell silent, she experienced the most curious sensation she was now soothing _him_.

"I was happy here, you know? As happy as I'm capable of being at least."

Still awash in the odd sensation, the sudden shift in conversation didn't really startle her. And for the first time in she didn't know how many days—weeks, really—she felt a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Drimmer very nearly killed you here."

Within the shadows she thought she could detect the slightest quirking of his own mouth, the thin, severe line softening. "A blip. The rest of the time—it was pretty good. _I_ was pretty good."

Pretty good was high praise from this highly pessimistic man. Of course he'd choose to retreat here. Create a refuge where he could hide and lick his wounds.

And now this very quiet, very private man was making room and clearing space for her to do the same.

She stared up toward the porch light, throwing a soft golden glow over the door, as if echoing the tacit invitation issued by the man who resided beyond its threshold. Promising safety and a maybe even a measure of peace.

Only an idiot would refuse.

"Sandwiches sound really good."


	4. Tell Me Yours, I'll Tell You Mine

**Tell Me Yours, I'll Tell You Mine**

* * *

"I lost custody of Iris today."

The glass slipped from his hand and landed in the dishwasher's rack with a loud clatter but miraculously, remained intact.

Of all the things he'd expected Karen to say, _that_ was definitely not in the Top Ten. Twenty. Hell, Top Fifty.

Top _anything_. Ever.

She kept her gaze downcast as she gently righted the glass in the rack before turning back to the mugs of coffee she'd been in the midst of preparing when she dropped her bombshell. Picking them up, she exited the kitchen, leaving him to finish loading the dishwasher. Clearly buying a minute in which to collect herself.

Because she was tough and would only need a minute whereas someone like him would need months… hell, _years_, to recover his equilibrium after uttering words like that. For God's sake, it had taken him two years and more whiskies than he could recall just to confess he and Victoria had been separated for two years. And that had been the last he'd said of that—mostly because he'd then promptly passed out.

But here was Karen, mere hours after receiving what had to be devastating and to Carlton, completely inconceivable news. _Karen? _Losing custody of her daughter? Which meant…good God…it meant—and she was _confessing_ it? To _him_?

And requiring only a minute to gather herself to tell him the rest. Because he knew she wouldn't have ever let loose with even that small bit of information if she hadn't intended to follow it up.

Good Lord, but she was a tough woman. Tougher than most men he knew.

And more fragile than he might have ever imagined, quietly sitting across from him during their dinner of deli sandwiches and coleslaw and potato salad, a shimmering, palpable air of sadness surrounding her. So delicate, it was possible an inadvertent wrong word—a wrong look—directed at it would cause it to shatter, and take her with it. So he'd stayed quiet, allowing soft music and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves on the trees and the drone of the occasional passing car drifting in through the sliding doors he left cracked open to provide the backdrop to their otherwise silent dinner.

Quickly, he finished loading the dishwasher, part of him desperately wanting to down a shot of Jack for fortitude, the larger part of him aware she was going to need him stone-cold sober. And he wouldn't be dwelling on his subconscious' use of "need." It was just a word, for God's sake—a damned useful one.

Closing the door on the dishwasher, he made certain the leftovers were put away, wiped down the counters, neatly folded the dishtowel and carefully draped it over the oven's handle and basically, killed a few more minutes—gave her a few more precious seconds—before turning out the light. Open as the kitchen was to the rest of the living area, turning out that light basically left the entirety of the cozy space dark, save for the small end table lamp. The entire time he'd worked, he had felt her gaze on him—but it hadn't felt odd. Just… familiar. She knew what he was doing and was okay with it. Knew he needed those few moments as much as she did.

He settled at the opposite end of the couch from her, hoping it was okay because given his currently limited furniture options, it was that or the floor and frankly, he was damned tired and really didn't want to sit on the floor. Judging by her slight smile as she leaned forward and handed him his coffee, it was okay.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice sounding rusty, as if from disuse.

"It was just sandwiches."

"Please don't be self-deprecating or dismissive. Not now."

He flushed, more than a little uncomfortable she'd so easily sussed him out.

"I'm sorry. Ingrained habit."

"I know, but please... don't."

She met his gaze, something in hers helpless in a way that was utterly foreign to him where she was concerned, yet that nevertheless reached straight into the deepest parts of the emotional self he normally kept bottled up and hidden away. Their gazes held, long enough for him to feel as if he were now encompassed within the fragile bubble surrounding her rather than standing just beyond its reaches, before she looked away and sighed, soft and unless he was completely missing the mark, reassured. She shifted, tucking her legs, clad in the flannel pajama pants he'd offered her along with a soft, worn t-shirt, under her. He'd found her ruined dress slacks balled up along with her dirt and blood-smeared blouse and sitting on the floor beside the trash can in his bathroom when he went back to change himself after giving her the opportunity to clean up while he placed the order for their dinner. Damaged state aside, he couldn't exactly blame her for not wanting to keep any evidence of this hellish day.

"I was actually excited, you know?" She stared down into the depths her mug as she spoke. "That first day I wasn't even bothered by Trout's suspending me because the only thing I could think was I'd be able to pick Iris up from school for the first time in nearly six months. I had no way of knowing that would simply be just another piece of ammunition."

He sipped his coffee, a thousand questions running through his mine, starting with _Ammunition? What the hell?_ But he remained silent, allowing her to tell him as much or as little as she wanted.

"I think Richard realized how excited I was initially. How much I wanted to try to make things right. Be a couple again. Be parents to Iris. And I think that made him willing to give us a chance. But it was… hard."

Karen's words emerged hesitantly, her confession teasing free a memory he wasn't even aware he'd retained: Marlowe, in the early, heady days of their marriage, relaying the reassurances and advice O'Hara and Karen—in particular—had given her just prior to the ceremony. How marriage was hard. How there would be good times and bad times. Times she'd just want to chuck it all and run away and yet... there would be other times—like telling her how beautiful she was in the wake of a child's birth—simple, magical moments that would make everything worth it.

He recalled now, too, the curious look Marlowe given him when he off-handedly mentioned he was the one present at Iris' birth. That he'd cut the cord and placed her on Karen's chest. But he sure as hell hadn't told Karen she was beautiful—she might have shot him with his own weapon.

In retrospect, however, he could admit to himself he'd privately thought so. Sweaty, in pain, aggravated as hell at him—and beautiful.

He'd almost said as much to Marlowe. An attempt to show he understood what she was trying to say—maybe even try to convey what that moment had meant to him personally, even though he'd been nothing more than an accidental and no doubt unwanted participant—but something had held him back.

"So what happened?" he asked, firmly shoving the memories of Karen's flushed, exhausted face and the surprisingly sturdy, perfect weight of Iris in his arms to the back of his mind.

She remained quiet so long he thought perhaps she'd said as much as she intended—or was able to. "I didn't realize just how bad it had gotten."

He reached forward and gently pried the coffee cup from her white-knuckled grip. Immediately, she drew her knees to her chest as if needing some way in which to shield herself. Oddly, it had the opposite effect, leaving her looking small and vulnerable, huddled in the corner of his sofa.

"How bad, Karen?"

"Bad enough that a month into my suspension, he told me it was over. Bad enough, he informed me if I intended to return as Chief of Police, he thought it would be better if Iris lived with him full time." Her voice caught and tripped over what sounded like a sob. "Bad enough that after counseling and questions and more questions, today that damned judge agreed that Richard was right. Just because I was honest."

Carlton felt himself bristling. Of course she was honest. What the hell else did those dumbasses expect?

"You've been the Chief of Police for eight years—the best this city's ever had. You have commendations and citations and a list of honors longer than my damned arm."

A faint wisp of a smile ghosted across her face, there and gone so quickly he couldn't even be certain he'd seen it. "I'm the Chief of Police who was suspended because of a perceived lack of control over her department and whose judgment has been called into question due to my dubious practice of repeatedly hiring a psychic who runs roughshod over protocol and grandstands for attention to the detriment of the department. And when asked what I might do differently if reinstated, was stupid and arrogant enough to reply that my department's record should speak for itself and I really couldn't see myself doing anything differently."

"You should have lied. Told them what they wanted to hear."

He heard the words—utterly foreign to his straight shooting nature yet ringing with absolute conviction.

"Don't think it didn't occur to me." She sighed and shoved her hand through her hair, wincing as it caught in a snarl. "Hell, Carlton, I thought about saying I had no intention of returning at all and for a wild minute, I even believed it."

As his heart stuttered at the thought of the department without Karen, she went on.

"Then I realized that would be as much a nail in the coffin as saying I wouldn't change anything had been, because if I _didn't_ return to the department, I had no viable means of support for Iris, therefore, she would still be better off with her father."

She dropped her head back, the dim light reflecting off the dampness on her cheeks. "Damned if I do, and damned if I don't," she said softly.

"Oh, come on—there has to be a happy medium." Again, he heard himself, the words as much plea as statement. Until that moment he hadn't realized just how much he'd not only been looking forward to, but counting on Karen's return to the department. Not simply because it meant he'd be rightfully reinstated to his own hard-earned position but... but...

Well, _because_, dammit. She _was_ the SBPD as much as he was.

"I'm sure there is." She stared at him, eyes wide, that air of helplessness emanating more powerfully than ever. "But I hadn't really considered one—never imagined I'd _have_ to consider one. And if I'd fumbled for some alternative without anything substantial with which to back it up, it would have come off as little more than a desperate Hail Mary."

"Crap," he breathed, wishing more than ever for that shot of Jack. Looking at Karen, curled into the corner of the sofa, he imagined she wouldn't be against a shot herself. But perhaps not the best choice right now. God knows, he had more than a little experience when it came to bad decisions made under the influence of too much alcohol and he was reasonably certain that flattening the tires on the asshat judge's car wouldn't serve her endgame.

"Now what?"

She blinked, as if surprised by the question. Her mouth compressed into a straight line as she breathed deeply through her nose, clearly fighting to regain some of her normal composure. Carlton wanted to tell her it wasn't necessary. She could fall apart all she wanted and it wouldn't go beyond these four walls. But he recognized her need to reestablish control—even if it was only the illusion of such. Definitely a need with which he was intimately familiar.

"Now," she started slowly, "I have to move forward. Move period." Gaze focused on her fingers worrying the hem of the borrowed t-shirt, she explained, "We both remained in the house while we waited for the judge to hand down his decision. Wanted to keep things as stable as possible for Iris. But now—"

Carlton felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness wash over him. Certainly nothing compared to what Karen had to be experiencing but... dear God. Losing a child—losing a home. Losing… everything. And yet, there she sat, bent, exhausted, but not even close to broken. He wondered if she realized how strong she was.

"On Monday I'm going to submit paperwork for a formal leave of absence beyond the dates of my suspension. I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to do next What I'm going to _be_ next, if I can't be a cop." Her gaze was direct, shades of the Karen he knew so well overlaying the devastating hurt she'd just revealed. "I can live with the fact that my marriage is over—" Her voice shook. "But I can't lose my little girl, Carlton—I _can't_."

"You won't. We'll figure it out."

Startled, he glanced around, searching for the source of the voice that sounded like his, but couldn't have possibly been his, because that would have been presumptuous and assumed a partnership that didn't exist or maybe even friendship and while yes, he'd cut her free from a car and fed her dinner and let her borrow a t-shirt and pajama pants, that didn't mean they were friends. Not at all. It couldn't.

Could it?

His head swung back to, his gaze meeting her slightly bemused one. But all she said was "Thank you."

Exhaustion of a different sort seemed to overtake her as she unfolded herself from the coiled ball of tension she'd maintained throughout the telling of her story. Curling onto her side, she propped her head on the arm of the sofa and blinked sleepily. He was about to ask if she wanted a pillow and blanket—or wanted to take his room—when she spoke again.

"Your turn."

Hell. Part of him had hoped she would let it slide. That she'd forget, even though in all his years of experience with Karen Vick, she'd never once forgotten anything. Ever. Her gaze—dark brown and direct—skewered him in a manner both familiar and reassuring, yet upon a second look, thought he saw something more. Imploring him to please give her something on which to focus that wasn't about her.

Screw it. He strode into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of Jack and two glasses. Pouring them each a generous measure, he tossed his back in one swallow, grinning as he watched her sit up and throw hers back with the same swift decisiveness, not even flinching as the liquor hit her system.

Pouring them each a refill, he sat back, staring into the whisky's amber depths as if it were a magical scrim that could reveal to him the source of why in the hell the Universe hated him so damned much.

"Well," he drawled, "it all began when I discovered I wasn't really married."


	5. The Whole Truth

**The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But the…**

**AN: **There seems to be some dissension on how Herb's surname is spelled. Despite the official _psych_ page on USA's website spelling it "Pollock" I went with the IMDB version of "Pollack." Mostly because I don't trust whoever writes the summations for the the web page. If you've ever read them, you'll understand what I mean.

* * *

Karen had known Herb Pollack was a duplicitous little weasel, but this…

This…

Son of a _bitch_.

"So let me get this straight—he told you he was a Justice of the Peace, but he…wasn't?"

"Well, he didn't lie about taking the course. He just never filed to complete the application to become licensed." Carlton rolled his glass between his palms. "Should've known when he muttered that nonsense about by the authority vested by the course he took during jury duty."

And of course, because he'd turned Federal witness, he was now ensconced in WITSEC with a new identity and safe from retribution. Suspended though Karen might be, however, she still had ways…

"Judging by the expression on your face I'm more than a little relieved right now that you don't have access to your service weapon."

"There's still yours," she muttered grimly, staring down into her refill of Jack. Carlton had warned her to make it last because he wasn't pouring her any more—that he shouldn't have poured her any at all, given her pain meds. But she'd taken those hours ago and she'd been cleared of a concussion, but like a fussy housewife, he'd been insistent.

"Locked away."

"Why are you worried? It's not like it would be aimed at you."

"Yeah, I know." Surprisingly, a hint of a smile teased the edges of his mouth. "But it'd be a bitch to deal with the paperwork to bail you out." And his voice was just so uncharacteristically mild, so… so… accepting. Why? He was the last person she would have expected to be so… magnanimous and… and… steady.

Surprised anew, she studied him across the expanse of sofa separating them. This was a man who'd spent the better part of two _years_ trying to salvage his marriage to Victoria Parker and from what Karen knew of the woman, she'd been _so_ not worth fighting for. While Marlowe, who on paper had seemed like the last person he should have fallen for—who on paper, should have been the last person to be… perfect for him—had been undeniably right. She'd made him happy. She should have been the one he fought for and yet…

"It's okay, Karen."

"Is it?"

Even in the dim light a faint wash of red was evident across his high—and she was noticing now, more prominent than normal—cheekbones. He'd lost weight in the last six months. And the hair that had been fairly evenly distributed between coal black and silver was now more uniformly iron-hued, his sideburns and temples turned silvery-white.

Only those vivid eyes remained the same, bright beneath still-dark brows—at least, until one looked closer and could see the muted gray shadows dimming the vibrant blue.

He sighed and tossed back the contents of his glass before setting it on the coffee table with a half-considering glance at the still-open bottle.

"Normally I'd say what choice do I have, except in this case, I did have a choice. And I chose to let it quietly end."

"Why?"

He shifted on the cushions, angling his body slightly into the corner and leaning his head against the back in a way that left him gazing at her through half-closed eyes. A lazy and relaxed position from anyone else, but not from him—she'd known him long enough to know he used positions like that as deception. Lull the casual observer into thinking he wasn't paying attention when absolutely nothing escaped that hooded blue gaze. She seen him use it time and again in interrogations, lazily leaning against a wall, arms crossed, head cocked as he studied his prey.

Not for the first time did Karen think he reminded her of a cat—still and outwardly relaxed, yet coiled and ready to attack given the slightest provocation.

"By the time we realized Pollack wasn't licensed and so therefore the marriage certificate he'd filed was invalid, all hell had broken loose at the department. You were suspended, I was a month into my demotion and Trout was—"

"A miserable son of a bitch," she interjected when he uncharacteristically faltered. "But Carlton, what did that have to do with making your marriage legal?" It should have been a simple matter: go to the County Clerk's office, find an officiant—a legal one—repeat the vows and sign the license in front of a witness. No problem, right?

Except clearly, there had been a problem.

Long fingers picked at imaginary lint on one leg of the sweats he'd changed into. An article of clothing as casual as anything she'd ever seen him in outside of his softball uniform.

"You know, Marlowe, she'd really only ever seen me at my best," he said quietly, gaze focused on his hand. "One might even argue she brought out the best in me, but even that wasn't enough to supersede everything that happened."

Karen had long prided herself on being in possession of logic, an ability to see all sides of an argument, and perhaps most important, a _very_ long fuse, the latter being the primary reason she'd beat out the otherwise extremely competent and deserving Head Detective Carlton Lassiter for the position of Chief eight years earlier. So even though the fuse was definitely lit as Carlton spoke, it merely smoldered, giving her the ability to allow him to finish speaking.

"I was so angry, Karen." His voice was low and embarrassed. "And you know what a bastard I can be when I'm angry."

"I do," she agreed, her voice gentle, but God only knew, she'd been on the receiving end of his ire many a time, especially in the early years of their working relationship. As such, she had little tolerance for it and would definitely make no excuses for him, especially if he was aware of his behavior.

But—

_But_…

If there was anything she'd learned in the past eight years it was how that anger was more often than not a front for so much more. How it served to mask confusion and hurt and dismay. How it could easily serve as substitution over a loss of control that for this man—with his deep need to maintain at least the illusion of control—must have seemed untenable.

"We never fought—not really—but I was just such an angry, miserable son of a bitch and Marlowe, she just stayed quiet through all of it and I just kept getting angrier and angrier. It's like I wanted to provoke _some_ reaction from her while I think she figured if she just let me go on the way I was—let me blow off steam—I'd work it out of my system. Expecting I _could_ work it out of my system."

Ah—and therein lay Marlowe's first mistake, Karen realized.

"Needed a kick in the ass, didn't you?"she asked as she leaned forward to put her empty glass on the table beside his.

"Yeah." His gaze flickered back toward the bottle of Jack, before settling back on her face. "Hadn't realized how much I missed it. Never would have imagined how much I... needed it," he confessed, the red rising in his face once more.

Guess he'd finally figured out what Karen had long ago learned—how in an odd way, those kicks in the ass tended to provoke not only a dose of self-awareness, but a grudging respect for whomever had delivered the blow. Then again, she shouldn't be so surprised he hadn't made the connection—at least, not within this context. Her kicks had been delivered from the position of boss, not wife.

At the same time though, she couldn't understand why Marlowe wouldn't have called him on his crap—she'd never exactly struck Karen as the shrinking violet type. And she couldn't imagine that Carlton wouldn't have been at least somewhat approachable—_especially_ with Marlowe. That he wouldn't have made _some_ effort to temper his anger. Especially when Karen considered how damned much he'd wanted his relationship with Marlowe to work out.

What the hell had kept both of them from at least _trying_?

"When we received notification our marriage wasn't legal and we figured out what had happened, Marlowe said that maybe it was a sign."

"Of what?"

"That maybe we'd moved too fast. That maybe… we'd gotten married for the wrong reasons."

Vaguely, Karen recalled wisps of a conversation—Marlowe expressing concern to O'Hara about how quickly things had moved. She thought it simply a tequila-fueled dream, especially since in her memories, Marlowe and O'Hara had inexplicably been dressed in peanut outfits and puss-print spandex.

Then again—she did have the much clearer, if hungover, recollection of O'Hara asking Marlowe if she was okay and Marlowe expressing that she was. That she knew Carlton would always come for her. That's when Karen had felt the need to step in and warn her there would be difficult days. A warning perhaps fueled in part by her anger over the fact that she'd only recently gotten off the phone with Richard who had called to tell her that he would not be driving up to attend the wedding. But looking at Marlowe's radiant and expectant face, she'd also recalled the halcyon early days of her own marriage and felt compelled to reassure her that there would also be many, _many_ good—days that would make everything worth it.

Admittedly, she'd chosen some curious examples with which to illustrate her assurances. Not so much the Eggs Florentine—and much as her relationship with Richard might have soured, she still had fond reminiscences of that day—but rather, the example of childbirth. Only at the last second had she caught herself and said "son" instead of "daughter," trying to generalize it and make it seem less... personal.

She still had no idea why she'd done that.

"Maybe she was right."

Propping her elbow on the sofa back, she dropped her head into her hand. "How do you figure?"

A shoulder rose beneath his worn dark, blue t-shirt before he shifted to mirror her position, head propped in his hand. Staring past her, he said, "You know, on our way to the ceremony, Spencer and Guster were asking about Stumpy—"

Karen shuddered. She'd heard, via Big Wendy who'd heard it from Woody, that Stumpy really wasn't Carlton's best friend, a piece of information that left her unaccountably relieved, especially after the skeevy little slimeball had propositioned her with something exceedingly unmentionable and quite possibly illegal in several states, at the reception. When she'd pointed out that she was still cuffed to Big Wendy, he'd retorted _that_ was part of the attraction. When she'd pointed out she was armed, he'd finally slunk off in search of more liquor and a less-discriminating victim.

"I told them I appreciated what they'd gone out of their way to do, despite the fact that, of course, it turned into an unmitigated disaster—not surprising, considering they were involved. But that it had made me realize that I now had Marlowe and she would provide me with all the companionship I'd ever need. Companionship," he repeated with more deliberation and a hint of the scorn with which she was so familiar. "What a lame-ass word."

As his gaze met finally met hers again, unmistakable weariness and sadness reflected in the low light, Karen felt herself nearly overcome with the impulse to stroke his head.

How odd, she mused, through her muzzy haze of exhaustion and Jack. Not so much the need to care, because she'd always cared for every officer under her command. Not even so much that she wanted to express it via touch, because she was inherently physical and that aspect of her nature was something she'd had to control in the workplace for obvious reasons. No… what was odd was that she wanted to physically express her caring with this man. Her prickly, pain in the ass Head Detective who tended to shy away from physical contact. Who fought like hell to keep his emotional barriers up, allowing the vast majority of the world to confuse quiet aloofness for cold and closed off.

Except prior to everything at the department going pear-shaped, he'd been far more relaxed. No less acerbic, mind—that would be like cutting off the man's right arm—but was somehow warmer about it. She'd ascribed it to his relationship with Marlowe. That falling in love with her had lowered those natural and very well-developed defenses, both physical and emotional.

The hope, as O'Hara had noted, had been a lovely thing to see.

Which is why she might have assumed those defenses would've slammed right back into place, sturdier than ever, in the wake of his recent experiences.

She continued meeting his gaze, seeing in their expressive depths an expected dose of caution, but nothing else that spoke to a desire to close himself off. At least, not to her.

Lowering her head to rest more fully along her arm, she carefully said, "Companionship shouldn't be underrated."

"No, it shouldn't." Once more he mirrored her position, lowering his head to rest on his arm although he opted to extend it along the length of the sofa's back, effectively bringing his hand alongside her head.

"But you'd think that on our wedding day—of all days—the first words that came to mind should have been true friendship. Love. A word like companionship speaks to something far less intense. Less... intimate." His brows lowered in the familiar frown. "You go for walks with a companion. To the movies. A companion is someone you can part from at the end of the day and yeah, you might feel a pang of regret, but you still leave and go on about the rest of your life."

"You're not in the habit of revealing yourself to others, Carlton." She sighed and sank further into the surprisingly comfortable cushions. "In that moment, 'companionship' probably expressed everything you needed it to—at least to Shawn and Gus. You did tell her you loved her during your vows." And once again, his face, wreathed in a wide smile, blue eyes shining in the mellow afternoon sunlight, flashed in her mind.

"Yeah, but did I say it because it's what was expected?"

Karen considered his question. True, Carlton was a man bound by duty and honor—who literally lived and died by the standards of conduct dictated by those principles—but falling in love with a felon, one he'd arrested at that, was hardly _expected_. By anyone's standards, let alone his own.

"Even if it was only to those half-wits, I should have been able to express more—should have _expected_ more—than companionship as the basis on which to build the rest of my life."

Even though her eyelids were growing heavier, she heard every word—knew she'd recall every word.

"And that's why I didn't fight when she said maybe discovering our marriage wasn't legal was a sign."

Confused, she blinked slowly, fighting to keep him in focus. "Why?"

"Because I couldn't help but recall that conversation and think that maybe my use of the word companionship was in its own way a sign."

Surely it was a product of her exhausted, slightly tipsy imagination, but she could almost _feel_ a slow, subtle stroking along her hair. Yeah. Just imagination. And because it was such, she wouldn't be taking any actions to stop it. Why should she? It felt nice. Soothing. Comforting in the way she'd imagined comforting Carlton.

It'd been a long time since she'd been comforted like that.

"You don't believe in signs. Or psychics. Or any of that mumbo jumbo BS claptrap."

"I don't," he agreed, his voice seeming to come from a distance and settling over her with the rich slowness of molasses. "At least, not most of it. But signs… I dunno."

"That's not the Carlton I know."

"I don't think that Carlton really exists anymore."

Peevish now, she muttered, "But I _liked_ him."

A soft, startled laugh had her forcing her eyes all the way open to discover his face far closer than she might have expected, his eyes focused on her and as intensely blue as they'd appeared in the dimness of his car. "That's a really nice thing to hear," he said, voice low, his breath ghosting across her skin as if in a dream.

"S'true." Giving into temptation, she slowly extended her own hand and gently stroked his head. Tried to imbue the gesture with the same sort of comfort he'd offered so freely—even if it was in her own tipsy imaginings.

"I know." His imaginary hand paused, the weight of it as comforting as the caress had been. "You have always been the most honest person in my life, Karen. I don't know if I've ever thanked you for that."

She could almost feel herself smiling. "You've cursed me for it."

The imaginary stroking resumed. "I'm an idiot."

"Then that makes you my idiot."

"I suppose it does."

"Damn straight."

Content with the outcome of a conversation she was absolutely certain was only taking place in the fertile depths of her own mind, she allowed herself to drift off.


	6. The Sun Also Rises

**The Sun Also Rises**

* * *

Carlton whistled softly as he poured himself a mug of coffee and carried it out to his small back patio, currently bathed in a soothing combination of mild early morning sun and shade. Normally at this time, he'd be out for his run, but he hadn't wanted to leave Karen to wake alone and possibly disoriented., given he had no way of knowing how much of yesterday's events—the evening, in particular—she'd remember. Better safe than sorry. Besides, he could always go running tonight. The nice part about this being the weekend—he wouldn't be too exhausted to run at night. Well, and the whole not having to go into the department and face Trout's squirrelly little face.

Good Lord, who thought he'd live to see the day he'd be relieved to not be heading into work?

He eased into one of his recently purchased Adirondack chairs with a sigh and took a grateful sip of the good Sumatra that was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself as he made his customary scan of the backyard he shared with his landlord who occupied the duplex's other unit. A retired military guy with a need to keep busy he had, in the years since Carlton had last occupied the unit, constructed an intricate cedar trellis that ran down the center of the yard, dividing it into two small, neat parcels. Not content to allow the trellis to stand on its own, he'd also planted several varieties of jasmine that he trained into climbing the slats, the glossy green vines growing densely enough to provide a much-appreciated sense of privacy while the white and pale yellow flowers lent a surprisingly airy and exotic feel.

Plus, they smelled really nice. Especially at night when he'd sit out here with a beer or a whisky and just try to… forget.

"Hey."

He twisted around in the chair to find Karen standing on the threshold, tousle-haired and blinking sleepily.

"Hey yourself."

"Is there enough coffee and brooding space for two?"

"I'm not brooding."

"No? Sure looked like it from where I'm standing."

"You're suffering from a head injury," he responded easily, then winced at the taste of shoe leather. That is, if he'd been wearing shoes. "Sorry."

Her mouth eased up in a rueful half-smile as one hand rose to touch the bandage covering the wound on her head. "I told you last night I'd been cleared of a concussion and as far as I can tell, despite the residual headache, my powers of observation haven't been adversely affected. Hence, I stand by my assessment of you as brooding."

He released a slow, relieved breath. "You haven't had coffee yet. Your powers of observation can't possibly be operating at peak capacity."

"Touché." The half-smile broadened slightly. "So is there?"

"What?" He followed her longing gaze to the mug he held. "Coffee? God, woman, it's like you don't even know me." Setting his mug on the small table placed between the chairs, he rose. "Go on and sit. I'll fix you a cup."

She waved at him to stay put. "I can get it."

"You're my guest."

Her nose wrinkled in a way that, combined with his borrowed oversized t-shirt and flannel pants gave her the distinct air a self-conscious teenager. "More like an interloper."

"Shut it."

"Come on, Carlton," she protested, her color rising. "You couldn't have possibly expected or wanted me to pass out on your sofa."

"You couldn't have possibly expected me to leave you on your own." Because he knew damned well she would have been—especially after he'd shamelessly checked her phone's screen this morning to make certain there weren't any unanswered calls or texts that might have expressed worry as to her absence.

The screen had been blank.

"Actually, I kind of did," she admitted softly, more pink suffusing her otherwise pale face.

"Head injury," he muttered as he paused beside her in the open doorway and gave her a gentle shove in the direction of his abandoned chair.

With an exasperated huff, she took a step onto the patio, then paused. "Do you even know how I take it?"

He suppressed—barely—the urge to roll his eyes. "After eight years, what do _you_ think?"

"Smartass."

"Like I haven't heard that before." He didn't have look to know she was standing arms crossed, dark glare attempting to bore holes into his skull—a pose she'd adopted more than a few times over the years where he was concerned. This reassuring hint of normalcy had him smothering a grin as he quickly dropped two slices of bread in the toaster and fixed her coffee—just as she took it.

Buttered toast and coffee in hand, he returned to the patio, only to find her in his chair, bare feet tucked beneath her thighs and both hands curled protectively around his mug.

"I got impatient," she admitted, another wash of pink rising as he placed the plate on the table and lowered himself into the other Adirondack.

"I would've thought it too sweet." He took a sip from the mug he'd prepared for her and tried to shove aside the slightly uncomfortable sensation that had suddenly overtaken him at the sight of her, curled up in _his_ chair, wearing _his_ clothes, and drinking _his_ coffee.

"It's surprisingly good. And I suspect I'm going to need the the additional sugar jolt to make it through the day" She smiled over the mug's rim as she lifted it to take another sip. As she drank, she shot a glance toward the plate.

Correctly interpreting her resigned expression he calmly said, "Tough. You need to take them."

She took the antibiotic from the plate and quickly swallowed it back with a slug of coffee before picking up one of the slices of toast.

"Karen—"

"The pain meds make me muzzy," she complained around a bite of the Farmer's Market rye—another indulgence—purchased each week.

"They're intended to relieve, you know, pain. Of the bumps and bruises that tend to be the nasty aftereffect of the type of very nasty car crash you experienced yesterday? If muzziness is a byproduct, so be it." And tried not to envision how much worse those bumps and bruises _could_ have been.

"Nothing hurts that bad."

Uttered even as she winced while shifting position in the chair. And even if she hadn't visibly winced, Carlton knew she had to feel like she'd been run over by a truck. After all, it hadn't been all that long since he'd been on the receiving end of well... being run over by a truck. More or less.

"Right," he drawled, earning another wash of pink accompanied by a dark, narrow-eyed glare that utterly failed to move him. "Take the damned pill, Karen—it's not like you'll be driving anywhere."

The toast clattered to the plate as she straightened. "Says _who_?"

"Says me." Unconcerned, he sipped from his—_her_?—mug. "Or do you have a high tech car of which I am unaware folded away in your briefcase like George Jetson?"

The mug hit the table with a sharp report. Good thing it was sturdy ceramic. Good thing the table was equally sturdy cedar. "I am not your charity case or… or… some obligation."

"Who said you were?"

"Carlton," she all but growled in a blessedly familiar tone, "I have got a lot to do today. I need to be clearheaded."

"You got a good night's sleep—" He paused and waited for her reluctant nod. "You'll be clearheaded enough for what most needs to be accomplished. The rest, we'll play by ear."

As her mouth worked, yet no sounds emerged, he resumed sipping his coffee and marveled at how odd, yet… okay, it felt to be taking the lead and essentially laying down the law for Karen. He knew damned well she wasn't a woman who took to dictates particularly well and outside of a couple of memorable—one of them _exceedingly_ ill-advised—instances, he'd never felt particularly compelled to issue ultimatums. At least not to her.

And while he would just as soon run the department's Fitness Course in hundred degree weather—twice—than accept help on his own behalf, he could admit to himself, usually in the quiet and dark of the many jasmine-scented evenings he'd spent in this very spot, it would have been… nice to have someone in whom to confide while his life was falling to hell. Or to at least provide some quiet, non-judgmental support.

Not that anyone would ever call him non-judgmental. He was judgmental as hell and proud of it. But not toward Karen. Not about what she was going through.

"Carlton," she finally sighed, but the outrage had faded along with the high color, leaving her too-pale and rendering her eyes even darker. They dominated her face with an obvious exhaustion that left him reassured he was doing the right thing. Because Karen Vick, she'd never ask for help either.

"Eat your toast—" He shot a pointed glance at the remaining pill on the plate then returned to gazing out over the yard, noting that several avocados on the tree that marked the property's back edge appeared to be nearing picking stage. Idly, he wondered if she liked guacamole.

"When you're ready for a second cup, we can go inside, I'll make us some breakfast, and you can tell me how you want to prioritize everything you need to do."

Battle won, he would return control. Because otherwise, she might feel compelled to take it back—at gunpoint.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her stick out her tongue before settling back into the chair—but not before taking the pain pill from the plate and swallowing it with a drink from his—_her?_—mug.

To his surprise, he found it really didn't matter.


	7. A Nice Man

**A Nice Man**

* * *

"What about the rental car? You're not going to be driving today, so do you think it's something we can put off until tomorrow?"

Speechless—hell, _helpless_—Karen stared at Carlton's bent head as he studied the list he'd been working on throughout breakfast. The breakfast he'd insisted on preparing mostly by himself, only allowing her to cut up fruit and only because it was a task she could accomplish while sitting at the kitchen island. Within sight.

He really was a fussy old lady.

With a sigh she pushed a chunk of melon around on her plate, thinking. "It'll be easier to deal with insurance on a Saturday than a Sunday, I think," she finally said.

"That's true—but still, you can deal with insurance today, and make arrangements to pick up the car tomorrow. No need to overexert yourself." He made a quick notation on the legal pad as he took a sip of coffee. Then, setting the pencil down, he met her gaze across the table, his own clearly troubled.

"What is it?" Still torn between amusement and annoyance at the ease with which Carlton was arranging her life—or at least, her Saturday—yet still somehow oddly comfortable, Karen speared the last of the omelet Carlton had prepared and popped it in her mouth. Not for the first time she sighed as the combination of prosciutto, asparagus, and Gruyere cheese hit her palate.

Rather than answer her question, he instead asked, "You done?" with a nod at her mostly empty plate.

"Yeah." But when she went to stand, he waved her back into her seat—something about the gesture making her think he needed a moment. Needed to collect his thoughts in order to be able to answer her. All right, then—she could give him that—even though she was intensely curious about what might possibly have brought that expression to his face. Clouded his eyes with gray shadows.

Cradling her coffee mug against her chest she watched him move easily, yet with a concentrated deliberation around the kitchen—much as he had the night before after she'd dropped her bombshell. Thinking about it, she felt a deep ache begin—nasty, painful tendrils that spread through her chest and reached up to wind around her throat. There'd been no messages on her phone this morning—she'd have to call Iris later. She had a sudden, desperate need to hear her baby's sweet voice telling her about her day—had an intense need to let Iris know how very much she loved her.

She'd also have to make a point to talk to Richard— figure out how they were going to tell Iris this latest news. At least she was already aware Mommy and Daddy weren't going to be living together much longer—but actually implementing the reality was something they hadn't really discussed, given they hadn't known what the outcome would be.

Except she'd been so _sure_—

Blinking hard, she attempted to focus on the blurry visage of Carlton crouched in front of her, one hand resting lightly on her knee, the other one pressing a tissue to her cheeks, his touch infinitely gentle, especially on the side where the abrasion from the airbag was still raw enough to sting as salty tears hit the wound.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled, fumbling for the tissue, fumbling for a shred of dignity. "I'm sorry," she repeated hoarsely, feeling the tissue tear in her desperate grab. "I'm so—"

"Oh God, Karen, shut up."

With that she felt the coffee mug removed from her hands an instant before he folded her in his arms—much as he had the day before after cutting her free—and allowed her to simply fall apart.

Even with tacit permission, however, she held herself rigid—fought to regain control—bunching the soft cotton of his t-shirt in her fists, until she heard his impossibly soft, "If it makes it easier, cry for both of us—for what we've both lost. Do what I haven't been able to."

Soft, broken, and impossibly sad, his words freed all the pain Karen had fought so hard to restrain since the moment the judge had handed down his decision. Since he'd declared it a decision that would be revisited after six months' time, but in a tone that suggested he wouldn't be inclined to change his mind then, either. The pain she'd tried to sublimate as she drove, blindly, up and up the twisting mountain road, her speed increasing, loose stones spitting out from beneath her tires to clatter against the sides of the car with the same, hollow resonance she felt as her heart beat faster in her chest and her breathing came in shorter, more desperate gasps.

A deep sigh shuddered through Carlton—almost as if he _knew_—and jarred loose a fresh wave of anger, causing her to ball her fists and beat them against his back, everything aching inside and out. Her body heaved with the violence of each sob, but no sound escaped outside of the occasional painful, high-pitched wheeze—allowing the soothing croon of his voice to reach her. Low and steady, he spoke as she cried, and although she had no idea what he said, the sound of his voice never wavered, the tone settling her down and drawing her back from the edge until finally spent, she allowed herself to go limp against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder as she stared, sightlessly into the distance.

"If you even think about saying you're sorry, I swear, I'll take you out back and turn the damned hose on you."

And it was so unexpected—so shocking—so utterly _Carlton_—she did the only thing she could do.

She laughed.

More accurately, found herself caught between a snort and a cough, her body jerking so violently, his hold tightened, preventing her from tumbling off the chair. Even after she was more securely settled, however, his arms remained firm around her, and she couldn't help but flash back to his words—the words that had allowed her release—and wondered if maybe he needed this as much as she did.

Almost from outside herself, she mused how in the past twenty-four hours, it was the probably—no, definitely—the most Carlton had ever touched her. She'd touched him—not often, and generally only very briefly in passing—but the obverse was most assuredly not true, given his reticence to initiate physical contact. She was surprised at how naturally it seemed to come to him and for the first time wondered if maybe he wasn't more like her than she might have imagined. Physical, yet having to restrain himself on the job. _Because_ of the job.

For the first time in years, she recalled his doomed affair with Lucinda Barry—mused on when it had happened in his personal history and the fact that he'd even allowed it to happen. She recalled how he'd held O'Hara on the clock tower, a moment neither of them had any idea she'd observed, the terror and relief so clearly etched on his face along with an obvious resignation as he'd drawn his partner in and allowed her to—yes, fall apart..

She recalled, too, how he'd looked, standing on the stoop to his condo, holding Marlowe, smiling at her as if she was this rare and precious thing he was still stunned to be embracing, and only very reluctantly releasing her. Recalled the expression on his face as he'd put his hand to hers culminating their vows. A simple touch, yet so deliberate and intimate, Karen knew it was a gesture that held deep meaning—one not offered casually or without thought.

Nothing about Carlton was casual—she'd known that for years. She'd simply never considered how it manifested beyond his work persona. Had been as guilty as everyone else of falling for the belief that nothing _else_ lay beyond the work persona. Hell, she was well aware it was a demeanor he deliberately cultivated and allowed to perpetuate. It merely added to the mystique of Carlton Lassiter, RoboCop.

Karen had just simply never considered the possibility he might have also cultivated the demeanor as protective armor. It had taken his relationship with Marlowe for any of them to realize there was... more.

With that revelation resonating through her mind, she very slowly opened her fists, spread her hands flat against his back, and very gently and carefully moved them in short, gentle strokes. He tensed—and she very nearly stopped—and then he sighed, his breath a light, warm caress against her skin.

They stayed that way for who knows how long. Karen couldn't even be certain who eventually drew back first or whether neither of them did, but merely moved in silent accord.

"Please don't turn the hose on me." Her voice was hoarse and scratchy with emotion released and emotion still held hostage—the emotion that even with everything that had transpired between them, she couldn't bring herself to release in front on him.

"Do I need to consider it?" His voice emerged equally hoarse.

"I just don't want you misinterpreting what I'm about to say." Very slowly, as if approaching a skittish horse, she lifted her hand and stroked his hair, feeling it soft and familiar beneath her touch, and realizing that like his caress to her hair, she hadn't imagined it. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Hoarseness gave way to a familiar gruffness, the walls started to descend as color rose from the neck of his shirt.

"That I never realized."

His shoulder rose beneath her other hand, tacit acknowledgement that he understood her meaning—the various layers—without further explanation.

"And thank you."

His brows drew together. "For what?"

"For letting me in."

He blinked, his eyes a muted blue-gray, tempered further by the slight redness rimming them. "I—"

"What did you want to ask me?" she broke in, not wanting him to struggle to come up with a response he was clearly not prepared to give. He'd already given her more than she would have ever expected.

Rocking back onto his heels, he stood, grimacing as his muscles clearly protested the position in which they'd been held hostage. He dropped into the chair to her right and rubbed at his knees as he gazed at her, his expression clearly contemplative.

Using her napkin to carefully dry the residual tears from her face and blow her nose, Karen let him have that extra few moments. Finally, he slumped back into his chair and shoved a hand through his hair.

"It wasn't really a question."

Steadier now, she studied him with the practice borne of years of experience. "And you're stalling."

"I am." Only a slight wash of red accompanied his admission.

"You're going to tell me eventually."

He released a slow, resigned sigh. "I always do, don't I?"

"Yeah."

"Crap."

Again, a response that was so utterly perfect in its Carltonness that she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth, despite the fact that she knew whatever it was he was so reluctant to bring up, yet felt as if he had to, was likely pretty damned far from amusing.

"Come on, Carlton—what is it?"

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he held it, then released it all in a rush, his, "I don't want to take you home," emerging almost as a single word. "I mean," he stammered, "I just don't want you to… dammit—" He fumbled for words, the red in his face rising further, even as his gaze—defiant blue—held hers.

For a brief, startled moment, she didn't quite grasp his meaning, feeling a corresponding heat rising in her own face, before she realized what he was trying to get across.

"It's okay. No one's—" She started to say "home," but realized that wasn't really true was it? Not anymore. "There."

Again, reminded of a skittish animal, she carefully edged her hand across the table, her fingertips brushing against his where it rested, balled into a fist. "Once we knew when the decision was going to be handed down, we made a plan."

Of course, like so many plans, it wasn't unfolding quite as she'd envisioned it. Of course, most of _those_ plans had involved Shawn Spencer. In this case, she had no one to blame but herself. She supposed peripherally, she could blame Shawn as well, but that wasn't her style. She'd screwed up. And now she had to pay the piper.

"Whoever… won—" Ashy and bitter, she very nearly spat the word out—her daughter wasn't a midway prize, for God's sake. "Would take Iris away for a week. We made reservations at a dude ranch in Arizona—figured it would be entertaining for her while whoever—" She would not use the word "lost" dammit—she simply would not. "Whoever stayed behind, would have a chance to… could…"

She could do this and she would not cry anymore. She would not cry. She could be strong.

Warm fingers closed around hers. Taking a shaking breath, she turned her hand in Carlton's and held on tight. She would not cry—she wouldn't—but she also wasn't too proud to lean a little. After all, she'd already leaned rather a lot on him and while she should feel guilty for imposing, she couldn't bring herself to do so. Right now, she was simply too grateful for his continued, solid… _Carltonness_.

Even so, she still couldn't quite say it outright, settling for a quiet, desperate, "Make arrangements."

And nearly laughed as the words emerged, the half-hysterical thought occurring that those were the same words people used to describe funerals.

How apt, really. Especially since she couldn't help but feel as if more than a little of her had died in the last twenty-four hours.

Exhausted, Karen slumped in her chair and tried to pull her hand free, but found herself unable, as Carlton's grip tightened—not much, but enough to compel her to still her motions.

A thoughtful yet thoroughly unreadable expression cloaked his features as he stared off into the distance. "I think I might be able to help you out with that." He shifted his gaze to meet hers across their clasped hands, the blue steady and level and God love him, lacking an ounce of pity. But still—

"Carlton—"

His brows lowered. "So help me, Vick, the threat to use the hose is still on the table."

"I wasn't going to say I was sorry," she shot back.

"Yeah, well, whatever you were going to say, I'm sure it was hose-worthy."

Nevertheless—at the risk of having him enact his threat—which she knew to be a very real possibility—she needed to speak her mind and he had to know she would. Because she was who _she_ was.

"You've done so much already."

The inclination of his head was slight—surprising for most who knew him as a man all-too-willing to accept any and all accolades. But again, that was the outside Carlton Lassiter. This Carlton Lassiter was…

Was… _nice_.

Carlton Lassiter was a nice man. A sentiment that should have felt surprising and yet, somehow, didn't. As if she'd somehow known, all along. A belief cemented by what he said next.

"At the risk of having you turn the hose on me—" His hold on her hand shifted slightly, gentled, yet felt even more all-encompassing. "So have you, Karen. So have you."


	8. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

**It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood**

**AN: **Well, it took a while, for various and sundry reasons (those bastards) but hopefully, the fact that it's a nice sizable update makes up for it.

* * *

_Oh my God, Carlton—_

_I warned you it might be rough. A foreclosure Ed bought as both a project and a favor. Was renting it to an old Reservist buddy dirt cheap in exchange for the guy doing the reno, but then he got called up for active duty and it's been sitting empty ever since. I had no idea it was in this bad a shape, though—_

_No… no—it's… perfect._

_Well, the kitchen's at least finished and one of the bathrooms, but the rest is pretty much gutted—_

_Carlton—_

_What?_

_Shut up._

_But—_

_Seriously, shut up. It's perfect._

_It is?_

_I think… it's exactly what I might need._

_Need? Are you kidding? What you need if you decide to take this on, is therapy._

_I've heard it both ways._

_Karen?_

_What?_

_Don't ever say that again._

_Say what?_

_What you just said. Those words that should never be uttered aloud, lest they conjure The Asshats of Doom._

_The Asshats of—oh. Oh, God. I didn't even realize—yeah, look you have permission to take me out back and shoot me if those words ever cross my lips again._

_Don't think I won't._

* * *

Carlton grinned as he turned the corner and jogged up the gentle rise of the final block. Every time he approached Karen's house—as it happened, an almost daily occurrence in the month since he'd first brought her to see the place—he replayed that conversation. And every time, he grinned.

Novel. Especially for him.

It had been such sheer stupid luck, he couldn't help but think it was fate, finally doing him a long-owed favor, so he could in turn, pass that favor on to Karen, who so desperately needed something good to happen. Not that anyone in his right mind would have considered the small, half-torn apart bungalow, _good, _per se, and not that he believed in woo-woo, claptrap BS like fate, but for once, he was willing to let it go.

Call it a stroke of luck or fate or what-the-hell-ever, but after Ed's former tenant had emailed from whatever dust-ridden outpost he was currently stationed at to inform him he wouldn't be returning to Santa Barbara after his tour was up because he'd fallen in love with another reservist and would instead be moving to her hometown of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, Ed was left with, as he'd groused to Carlton, a mess. Admittedly, he _could_ finish the renovation himself—it's what he'd done with the duplex—but a sweet 1940 Chris Craft Barrel Back runabout in need of some serious TLC had captured his fancy. Not to mention, his checkbook. Last thing he wanted was to be sinking money he could be using on his new baby into making the house habitable enough to rent on the open market.

That Saturday, after dropping Karen off at _that place she used to live_, Carlton had looked up where, exactly, Eau Claire was and conceded yeah, it had to be true love, because dear God, why the hell else would anyone move there voluntarily? The average January temperature alone was twenty-four degrees—for the _highs_. When he approached Ed with the suggestion he had a friend—yes, because Karen was a friend, dammit—who might be interested in seeing the house, the old man had all but thrown the keys at him and said fine, _please_, for God's sake, take her to see the damned house and tell her if she was willing to put in the elbow grease, she was more than welcome to have it at the same deal he'd offered his Reserve buddy.

Which brought them to… now.

Luckily, the reservist had left his relatively few belongings boxed and stored in the garage—macabre, perhaps, but Carlton understood the reasoning, given he was headed off to a hot zone—which made it possible for Karen to move in right away. Carlton had helped, overriding her protests by saying she was still sore and had a bum wrist due to the accident and besides, he had a metric assload of personal time saved up. Trout had been making threatening noises about eliminating excessive unused days and reclaiming the monies for the city budget, thereby elevating his status with the mayor, and really, could they have that?

Allowing him to help was both doing _him_ a favor and annoying Trout at the same time, so bonus.

She'd laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days, as he'd recalled, but after shaking her head and muttering something that sounded like _stubborn Irish dolt _under her breath, she'd accepted his help.

Initially, he'd taken two weeks of his accrued time, using it to help Karen with some of the heavier duty projects such as taping and mudding the exposed seams of the fresh drywall Mr. Reservist had hung, scraping and priming the surprisingly vast amount of woodwork and trim, and vetting the contractor she hired to finish the small guest bath because they both agreed plumbing and tiling a bathroom was maybe beyond either of their abilities. After a half-hearted protest that really, Carlton, he didn't need to give up his weekends as well—a protest he'd effectively stilled by giving her an unexpected taste of the pasta sauce he'd been stirring at the time—they'd agreed to use those days for taming the small, but wildly overgrown yards. Dense with shrubbery and trees some long-ago owner had planted with care and thought, they'd been sadly neglected for too long. The two weekends of backbreaking labor they'd put in had left them both sunburned and groaning with fatigue, but by the end of it, they'd corralled the yards enough so they no longer resembled jungles . At least, it gave them enough breathing room to consider what they might next want to do with the space.

Oh, hell.

Hell.

Them.

They.

Crap.

It had been happening more and more often. And it really needed to stop.

He eased to a stop at the foot of the driveway, barely breathing hard from the easy one-mile run that brought him from his driveway to hers.

_You're helping her, Lassiter. You got that? Help-ing. Her. Her place. Her… life._

Steadier, he squared his shoulders and stepped past the driveway to the front walk, pausing to retrieve the mail. As he drew closer to the house, he noticed the many casement windows opened wide and the front door propped open. The reason for this was made abundantly clear as he stepped beneath the small, shingled overhang that made up the front landing and got his first clear look inside the house.

"Hey," she called before setting her tongue back between her teeth and applying another long stroke of the pale sky blue they'd chosen for the two walls that defined the living area.

_They_

Dammit.

But in this case, it was true. _They_ had gone to the home improvement store together after finishing with the drywall and _they_ had picked out supplies and _they _had lingered over vast racks of paint chips and samples, amiably discussing what color would look good and take best advantage of all the light pouring into the living areas courtesy of the multitudes of windows. In the end, _they_ had decided since Mr. Reservist had finished the small, efficient kitchen with bright blue cabinetry offset with white counters and stainless steel trim and appliances, then perhaps creamy white would be a good color for the walls of the kitchen and eating area while the living area would be best served with a light airy blue.

He wouldn't dwell on the fact that it had been _his_ suggestion that they paint the short angled wall in the corner with the set in fireplace a deeper blue—or that her eyes had lit up and she'd smiled and said he was brilliant, making his cheeks burn enough that he'd turned away and made a desperate grab for nearest employee, asking _nicely_ for God's sake, if he'd mix the paint for them.

Thank God Karen had already wandered away and was thoughtfully considering stains—making it virtually impossible for her to hear the orange-vest-wearing senior citizen make some damned _wink-wink-nudge-nudge _reference to keeping the little woman happy. With any luck, the color in his face had subsided enough by the time she returned that she hadn't noticed, but she had given him more than a couple sidelong stares on the drive home.

Back to _her_ home, dammit.

"Hey," he finally said, as he stepped past her to the kitchen. "I brought the mail in." He dropped the small stack of envelopes on the counter before retrieving a couple beers from the fridge. Uncapping them, he returned to where she was now unscrewing the pole extension from the roller. "I thought you were going to wait for me to help with painting this room," he said mildly as he placed a bottle in a blue-streaked hand.

"Oh, you're a god," she sighed, briefly resting the bottle against an equally blue-streaked forehead before taking a long, grateful drink, her eyes closing in bliss and revealing yet another faint smudge of blue decorating one eyelid like cockeyed eyeshadow—a sight that made him grin. He'd learned she was a messy painter, a fact that, after knowing her primarily as the neat, deliberate Chief, amused him no end.

She was looking much better, he thought. Her long lashes no longer masked such dark circles and if the deep brown of her eyes were still clouded with shadows from time to time, there were moments—rare, initially, but increasing in frequency—where they were clear and steady. And when the light hit them just right or she was smiling or tired or simply comfortable, they'd lighten to a rich, warm amber that reminded him of the really fine bottle of Irish Single Malt that had been a Christmas gift one year.

Okay, that _he'd_ bought himself one Christmas and had told everyone was a gift. From a grateful individual to whom he'd rendered invaluable assistance. A grandiose and idiotic stunt he wouldn't have ever pulled if Spencer and Guster hadn't pranced through the department in the full ski wear they'd received as gifts from members of the Swiss women's Ski Team for assistance rendered doing… hell, he had no clue what the hell they'd done. But they'd been asshats about the spoils of their labors—using that word _very_ loosely—and he'd been annoyed. And stupid.

But his observation remained valid. Her eyes were clearer. And lovely. And obviously, he was still stupid.

"And never fret—I've only done one coat. Plenty still to do."

"We'll get it done tomorrow."

She paused, bottle halfway to her lips. "Tomorrow's Friday."

"It is," he replied easily.

"Carlton," she started, but it drifted away at his upraised hand.

"I already told you, Karen—non-negotiable. I'm taking Fridays for the foreseeable future. I have more than enough time saved and it pisses Trout off no end."

Her brows lowered into a worried line. "That's what worries me."

"What's he going to do? Knock me down to foot patrol?"

"Entirely possible." She sighed and rolled the bottle between her palms, her expression troubled. "Or he could assign you the high school driver's ed. beat."

"Bite your tongue." He suppressed a shudder at the thought of being trapped in a training vehicle with teenagers. A class full of hormonal angst-and-attitude ridden beasts like the little twerp who'd done ridealong with him and O'Hara years earlier. Or worse still, like a class full of... _Spencers_.

It would be just like Trout to saddle him with that gig.

"If he tries, I'll submit my retirement papers."

The words slipped out so smoothly, so lacking in hesitation, he immediately knew they had to have been living in his subconscious for some time. But why not? What the hell else did he have to prove? He'd achieved a lot at a very young age—but he could admit now, those achievements had cost him a lot, too. Truthfully, outside of the anger and humiliation of the _why _behind his current beat, he honestly didn't mind being back in uniform and in a patrol car. There was something to be said for being back in the trenches and letting someone else deal with the day to day headaches of being in a position of authority.

He could even say the important thing was that he was still doing police work but even that…

Okay—he wouldn't have said it years ago or last year or hell, even six months ago, but he _could_ say it now.

It was a job.

Just a job. A job he was very good at, but one he was finding increasingly easy to leave behind and forget the moment he punched out.

Dwelling on _why_ that was the case wasn't important. No sir, it wasn't. For now, it was the realization that was important.

At least, that was his story and by God, he was sticking to it.

He snapped out of his thoughts to find Karen staring at him, open-mouthed.

"What?"

"_Retire_?" She blinked, the smudge of blue on the one eyelid rapidly winking in and out. "You?"

He set his bottle on the fireplace hearth and collected her used painting supplies. "I'd have to eventually," he said as he made his way to the garage door and shouldered his way through.

She followed him, protesting, "Eventually, sure. Like in twenty _years_. Or, you know, when they carry you out, feet first."

He dropped the supplies on the workbench a previous owner had installed and started running water in the utility sink. "Henry didn't stay that long."

"So? You're not Henry."

"It's hard to argue there was a more dedicated cop than Henry." Carlton dropped the rollers and brushes into the sink, keeping his focus on rinsing them as clean as possible. "And even he knew when to get the hell out."

"Henry knew when to get out because he realized he'd gone as far as he could."

Startled, Carlton looked up. She leaned against the edge of the sink, arms crossed and returned his gaze, her eyes lit to that rich, warm amber.

"Oh, yes, Carlton—Henry was never going to make Head Detective."

"You can't possibly know that. He was long retired by the time you made Chief."

One side of her mouth eased up in that knowing Chief Vick smile. "Yes, but as Chief, I had access to all the personnel records. I knew when I rehired Henry, I was hiring a great cop—you can't have worked for the SBPD for as long as either of us has and not know that. However, after he accepted my offer, I made it a point to familiarize myself with his records from the position of Chief. And the truth of the matter is, Henry had gone as far as he was going to go within the force."

A humorless chuckle escaped as he shook out the rinsed rollers and brushes. "Kind of makes you wonder how the hell I managed to snag Head Detective."

"Stop it."

He snorted and rolled his eyes as he shut off the water.

"That's not the Carlton I know."

Silently, he lifted a shoulder as he laid the damp items out to dry on the drop cloth they had spread across the workbench for this purpose.

And there was that damned _they_ again.

More softly she said, "The Carlton I know is damned well aware of his attributes and abilities and has always maintained an unwavering belief he deserves everything he's ever gotten." After a pause she added, "Except maybe Spencer."

Turning back to the sink, he ran the water once again, methodically rinsing the paint splatters from the interior. "Didn't get me to Chief now, did it?"

And immediately felt like an ass.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She resumed her position leaning against the sink. "We both know my appointment was as much politically motivated as anything else. The same way that Trout's appearance was politically motivated. It's part of the game. And we both know it's why you didn't get the position despite the fact that you maybe deserved it if not more, then at least as much."

Carlton spun the taps closed and after shaking excess water off his hands, accepted the rag Karen held out for him.

"You're remarkable," he blurted without thinking.

And immediately felt like an ass.

But the immediate softening of her expression removed some of the sting of what felt like a massive blunder.

"How so?"

He liked that. He liked that she didn't act all coy or try to dismiss what he'd said in an effort to draw more compliments from him. She simply accepted that he meant what he said. Accepted that she _was_ remarkable without need of validation from him or anyone else. She simply wanted to know why he thought so.

"Because you were able to play that game so successfully for so long. Made you a much better Chief than I could have been." He draped the rag along the edge of the sink, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in an effort to not have to meet her gaze. "Which is why, too, I can consider retiring. Like Henry, I've gone as far as I'm liable. There's nothing else for me to do."

And bit his damned tongue to keep from adding "especially without you there." No matter how true it was. No matter how much he meant from the standpoint of the entire department felt different and off-balance and… wrong.

Maybe he was just getting too old and set in his ways. He didn't like all of the changes of late and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered why should he have to put up with them?

"There's the work, Carlton." Her voice was gentle as they reentered the house. "I know you and while I know you like the kudos, I know at the end of the day, it's about the work."

He dropped onto one of the diner-style blue and chrome stools that had been one of their—dammit—_her_ first purchases and propped his elbow on the breakfast bar. "There are different ways by which to go about doing similar work."

Entering the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. Her mild, "You mean like becoming a PI?" drifted out from the depths of the fridge.

Oh, hell _no_. Maybe. Hell, he didn't know. He hadn't really thought of it. He really hadn't thought of anything. But... anything was possible. And at this point, what the hell else did he have to lose?

Luckily, she didn't seem to require a response—good thing, since he wasn't certain he could formulate coherent speech out of the jumbled thoughts her off-the-cuff-but-was-it-really question had set free. She closed the fridge and returned to lean against the counter opposite him. "I'm starving and yet there is absolutely nothing in there that is capturing my interest."

"We can order in," he said, sliding from the stool to retrieve their beers from where they'd left them on the hearth.

"We've been doing that a fair amount. And you end up insisting on paying."

"Consider it a reward for all your hard work around here."

She hit him with one of _those_ stares. The kind that left him feeling like a bug pinned to a slide. "You've been working every bit as hard. The past couple of weeks after working a full shift."

"I find it relaxing."

Her brows rose.

"Okay, yes, and exhausting. But it's a good kind of exhausting."

He took another look around, amazed anew at how far they had come in the past month—and in this case, he was okay with the _they_ because he'd definitely provided his share of the labor. Willingly. And the results were gratifying in a way he'd never expected. He knew exactly where the alder floors sloped slightly and their slight squeak by the back door and where every patch and seam was located in every wall. He knew how the sun looked streaming through the wide windows both in the early morning and as the sun set. How it flooded the small house with a warm light that made it feel both cozy yet far more spacious than it actually was. He could sit here at the breakfast bar and look through the French doors—the refinishing of which was his next project—out into the cleared back yard and easily envision laying brick for the small patio that would flow into planters and a built-in grill, perfect for weekend barbeques and dammit to hell, he really had to stop thinking this way.

It was dangerous, he knew—allowing himself to feel so proprietary, especially when it was Karen's home—but he'd never put so much work into any place before. Certainly not the home he'd shared with Victoria since she'd preferred they have "experts" work on the house. Not even the condo beyond painting a few walls.

Carlton could tell himself that ultimately it was as much a favor to Ed since he was the home's owner and all, but that was BS on a Spencerian level.

"I have some news."

Once more, her voice pulled him from his own thoughts—thoughts he prayed weren't visible on his face. As much as he might like to think he was the original stoneface and he could fool the vast majority of the Village Idiots with whom he dealt on a daily basis, he was also well aware his expression could just as easily give him away. At least, he'd noticed it seemed to give him away with Karen. It used to with O'Hara, but she'd quit looking long ago. Not to mention, much of what she did had quit affecting him enough to provoke a reaction.

"Yeah?"

"A few things, actually." Rounding the breakfast bar, she slid onto the stool next to his. "I received notice today my request for a leave extension beyond the end date of my suspension was approved."

Heart unaccountably in his throat, he managed to ask, "How long?"

"Three months, half salary." She released a slow breath. "The pay is more than enough for my current circumstances and gives me time."

He swallowed hard and willed his pulse to _relax_ already. While they often worked in companionable silence, there were times she talked. She'd give him abbreviated versions of the nightly phone calls she shared with Iris—and he'd ask leading questions, learning more about the little girl whose birth he'd witnessed and whom he'd seen intermittently in the years since, usually at department gatherings where families were invited. She'd talked less about her marriage, but enough for him to understand what had led to its demise. Not dissimilar to what had happened between him and Victoria, he'd offered in turn. Not dissimilar to what happened to a lot of cops of their acquaintance.

Theirs was a profession littered with broken relationships—especially when an equal or greater amount of time was spent married to the job. He'd long been of the belief Karen had mastered the balance, but clearly, even she had fallen victim.

Lately, she'd started talking more about her future. What options she had available. They'd talked about what it might be like to return to school—maybe find a consultant's job, laughing about how ironic it would be for her to swoop into the SBPD and evaluate Trout. Now, however, it was rapidly evolving from speculation to reality.

"You knew the likelihood I'd be returning as Chief was extremely slim, Carlton." She spun to face him more fully, her bare knees nudging his sweatpants-covered ones. "Not if I want shared custody, which at this point is the best I can hope for. The judge was adamant."

Damn his expression. Damn her ability to read him.

"Bastard—" he muttered. "Forcing you to make a choice like that."

"It's a choice I'd make a thousand times over for my baby."

He stared into her intense brown gaze—felt the weight of her hand where it had come to rest on his knee.

"Remarkable," he said softly.

A slight smile curved her full mouth as she shook her head slowly. "I'm just a mother. At least, I'm trying to be."

"You always have been, Karen. Don't you _ever_ doubt that."

She reared back at the ferocity with which he spoke, though her hand remained steady on his knee, the feel of it changing somewhat, as if to soothe.

"My hero," she said softly.

"You don't need a hero," he retorted, feeling the hated heat rising from the neck of his t-shirt. "Just need reminding every now and again."

"Whatever you say." Said in a tone that suggested she'd let him labor under his delusions for the time being. Delusions his _ass_.

"So what else is there?"

Her smile deepened. "Come see." Sliding from the stool, she grabbed his hand and pulled him after her and into the bedroom designated for Iris.

"It all came."

Beside him, she nodded. "They called this morning, said they'd had a delivery cancellation and if I was ready, they could bring it by and set it up."

He stepped more fully into the room, noting that yes, the paint smell had finally faded completely. Karen had told him it was his imagination that it lingered, but he had been absolutely certain there were still a few stubborn fumes hanging around and brought in fans and lightly-scented air fresheners to banish the last of what he _knew_ remained. Last thing she needed was to have Iris go back to her father and say her room at Mommy's smelled funny. God only knew what the asshat judge could do with that sort of information.

But no, no more smell and the white wood and wicker furniture fit perfectly, thanks to his obsessive measuring. With the butter yellow walls and the ceiling painted the same soft, sky blue as the living room, the room had the feel of a beachside retreat. Karen had finished the simple décor with a shell-patterned quilt and by the window, wind chimes made from pieces of reclaimed sea glass in shades of blues and greens. However, beyond a stuffed lobster resting on the bed and a few photographs, the room remained an otherwise blank canvas, waiting for Iris to put her own stamp on it.

"Do you think she'll like it?"

He turned away from the wind chimes to find Karen perched on the bed's edge, gazing at a framed photograph of her and Iris at the beach—a pair of lovely, laughing wind-blown blondes.

"She's going to love it."

She smiled, but there remained a hint of uncertainty about it. "It'll be nice to have her here this weekend instead of having to make up an excuse to stay in a hotel." She sighed. "Be nice to set up a sense of normalcy and make this start feeling like… home."

It _would_ be nice. Even though it meant he wouldn't be seeing Karen this weekend. But he'd known that already. Had already been trying to figure out what he'd do with the suddenly empty hours. Tried to remember what the hell he used to do before he got so wrapped up in Karen's life.

Two weeks earlier, when Karen had taken Iris to Disneyland for their first weekend together, he'd spent a couple of hours at the shooting range before realizing he was bored out of his skull. He'd gone to the beach, thinking he'd run there instead for a change of pace.

Bored.

He'd gone to the bookstore and perused the military history section.

Bored.

Started to reread the entire California Penal Code, paying special attention to the newly revised sections.

Bored.

Watched reruns of _Cops_.

Bored.

Caught up on grocery shopping, laundry, and paying bills.

Boring, boring, and the devil's own exercise.

By Sunday, he'd been so surly even Ed—master of minding his own damned business—had noticed and put him to work out in their shared yard, pulling weeds and fertilizing and checking the trellis for any weak spots that might need shoring up. At least he'd wound up with a nice bowl of avocados for his efforts and had discovered, later in the week, that Karen did, indeed, like guacamole.

At least this weekend he'd know she was nearby. Much as he'd miss their time spent together, he somehow felt better knowing she'd only be a mile away. And God knows, she was probably ready for a break from him.

"You'll help me finish getting everything ready tomorrow?"

Her anxious question left him breathing a little easier. Which probably made him a bastard, but he'd never denied that particular personality trait. "Of course."

"Good." She carefully replaced the framed photograph and stood. "You know, I'm not in the mood for ordering in either. Why don't we go out to get something to eat?"

He stared at her, with her paint-streaked shorts and t-shirt and face and hands and then glanced down at himself, in his battered t-shirt and sweats. "We're neither of us exactly dressed to go anywhere that's not a drive-through."

She shrugged. "Won't take me that long to shower and change."

"I suppose I could borrow your car and run home to do the same."

"No need." When he lifted an eyebrow in question she smiled. "Don't you remember? You left some clothes here last week."

"I did, didn't I?"

He had. He'd come to Karen's after meeting with Marlowe regarding the sale of the condo. He had no interest in living there in the future and the mortgage was too steep for her to bear on her own, so it was going on the market. When it sold, he'd give her half of the proceeds with which to make a fresh start. She'd argued it was hardly fair, but he'd replied he expected to get more out of it than he'd put in, now that there was no longer a serial killer living on the premises and those creepy Farrows had lit out for the suburbs with the birth of their second devil-spawn. It did still leave the question of the sisters, but they were old. Surely they'd die of natural causes.

Eventually.

Besides, he owed Marlowe, even though he'd never put it in those terms lest she nail him with that devastating cross she'd picked up in the clink. He'd cost her a lot. Put her through more than she ever deserved.

He'd driven straight to Karen's, changed into the sweats and t-shirt he kept in his go-bag—old habits dying hard—and had set to stripping and sanding wood with a vengeance. He'd worked through the aches in his shoulders and the blisters rising on his palms, stopping only after they broke and Karen forcibly pried his hands from the sander. She'd dressed the wounds, poured him a stiff shot of bourbon, and sat with him through a hastily thrown together meal of tuna sandwiches and potato chips, all without uttering a single word, although when he'd made to leave, she'd stood facing him in the doorway and lifted her hand to gently stroke his hair. Just once.

He'd felt that touch more than once in the days since—usually late at night, in the dark of his room, just before drifting off to sleep.

Following her to her room, he hovered in the doorway while she crossed to the closet and slid one of the mirrored doors open. As she approached, the hanger with his khakis and polo in one hand, the suede bucks he'd worn that day in the other, he was shocked to see she was blushing.

What the hell?

"I hope you don't mind," she said, offering him the hanger. "I… washed them."

"I don't mind." He reached for the hanger, his fingers brushing hers. "That was… nice of you."

And felt a blush of his own rising at the thought of his clothes tumbling with hers in the washing machine. Of her pulling them warm, from the dryer and smoothing out the wrinkles before carefully hanging them. Of making space for them in her closet, alongside the neatly hung slacks and blouses he could see through the partially open door.

He'd never thought of washing clothes and sharing a closet as intimate gestures before, but standing there in Karen's bedroom, his fingers brushing hers as they grasped the hanger holding the clothes that she'd washed for _him_ and had stored in _her_ closet, that's exactly how it felt.

Intimate.

Heat rising in places other than his face, he cleared his throat. "I'll, um… just use the guest bath."

She stared up at him, her eyes turned that clear, rich amber that in the early evening light of her room, almost appeared to glow. "I'll get you a towel."

But she didn't move. And neither did he.

And then they both did. Their hands, in accord, slowly lowering, allowing enough room for her to take a half-step closer, still staring.

Allowed him to take a half-step closer, his free hand rising to her hair, messy and spattered with paint, yet still so soft.

But not as soft as her mouth, brushing his with the delicacy of a butterfly's wings once… then again… and again…

The hanger clattered as it hit the wood floor.


	9. The Stranger & the Secret Lover

**The Stranger and the Secret Lover**

* * *

Gentle.

His hands on her face.

His breath on her skin.

His mouth on hers.

So very gentle.

It should have come as a surprise, but it didn't.

So much about Carlton should have come as a surprise to her—yet no longer did.

The shoes landed on the floor with dull thuds as she wrapped both arms around his back, wanting to hold his body close, to feel his heartbeat against hers.

This first kiss was exploration and discovery, unhurried and sweet and almost innocent if not for the very real current of desire she felt running between them. A sensation that made her shiver as his thumbs slowly traced the line of her jaw and his tongue stroked the seam of her lips, requesting entry with the barest hint of demand that made her shiver again, her body responding to the strength behind the gentleness

That same desire caused his back to shudder beneath her hands as she stroked, light, yet deliberate from shoulders to hips, her fingertips creeping beneath the hem of his shirt to rest on smooth skin. _So_ warm—beckoning her closer still and prompting spine-tingling flashes of what it would be like to be fully wrapped within all that heat and the strength she _knew_ lay just below the surface.

Not unlike a banked fire, Karen thought. Quiet to the point of appearing dormant, but in actuality, smoldering, waiting simply to be stirred to life where he'd snap and burn almost impossibly hot as long as she fed the flames. Sighing at the thought, she caressed his tongue with her own, explored the shape and texture of his lips, shivered again as she felt his teeth catch the tip of her tongue and drag against her lower lip, sucking gently as he slowly withdrew. His chest rose and fell steadily, brushing against hers in a maddeningly sensual caress as he gazed down at her, his eyes turned a stormy, heated blue. A hint of things to come, she knew. And they would.

Just not right now.

And that was okay. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she was content to not have all the answers right away. To just allow things to happen as they would. What was it about Carlton Lassiter—this Carlton she'd only just gotten to know—that amidst the growing desire, he could nevertheless instill such patience?

Such… peace.

A slow finger traced the outline of her face. "You're beautiful," he said, his voice low and intimate.

Warmed by the unvarnished honesty in his simple words, she tilted her head slightly, leaning into his caress. She wanted to respond in kind—tell him how handsome she thought he was, how the past month spent in his company made her feel more alive than she had in far too long, how his eyes, with their ever-changing shades of blue captivated her every time she looked into them, but sensed that again, this was not the time. That the right time would come.

Instead, she responded with, "You're not going to panic or freak out about this?" And immediately cursed herself. Still clearly caught in this spell of… whatever this was, he certainly didn't appear to be freaking out. A question like that, however, could certainly prompt a bout of freaking out and cause him to withdraw or, God forbid, reconsider, and did she really want that?

No. No, she did _not_.

Lord, she was a stupid woman.

But all he did was take a deep breath as his hand slid into her hair, his fingers curving against her skull in a caress both gentle and supportive. Taking the cue, she allowed her head to drop back, more fully meeting his calm, definitely-not-freaking-out gaze.

"Five years ago—hell, a year ago, it would have been a guarantee, but now—" One shoulder rose as his thumb drew light, devastating patterns just beneath her ear, making her hands tighten on his waist. "I've gone into relationships without the benefit of friendship first and I've held back on pursuing relationships out of fear of ruining a friendship."

His mouth eased up in a half-smile, but it wasn't a happy one. "Obviously, neither approach has proven to be particularly successful seeing as neither the relationships nor the friendships have survived."

"What makes—" she started to say "this" but heard herself saying instead, "us different?"

And realized by the subtle lightening of his features that "us" had been the right word to use.

"Karen, your friendship is quite possibly the most important thing in my life right now." Both hands now cupped her head, holding her steady. "And the absolute last thing I want to do is ruin it or lose it."

"You won't," she whispered.

"You can't know that. But I'm so damned tired of letting fear win." His hands trembled in her hair. "And I'm damned tired of not being friends with the woman I love."

Her eyes widened as her breath caught.

"Shh… relax." One hand dropped to her back, holding her close, but in no way feeling restrictive. "I'm not there—yet." His gaze was steady, with an underlying resolve. She'd seen that look a thousand times as he headed out into the field, ready to confront the bad guys and take them down, whatever the cost. Even if that cost was himself.

He was not afraid.

And as she had, a thousand times before, she felt fear enough for both of them, even while buoyed and reassured by his bravery and resolve.

"But…?"

"I suspect it's only a matter of time."

It wasn't often she was ever left speechless. Carlton Lassiter being completely open and honest and unguarded with his feelings—even after a month of constant companionship and learning more about him than she ever would have expected—completely robbed her not only of words, but also, of breath. Especially after his thumb resumed its slow caress to the sensitive skin beneath her ear and she felt herself shiver once again, goosebumps rising along her skin.

Oh. Oh, _my_. It would appear the ladies restroom rumors about him were not only true, but maybe hadn't quite done him justice.

She resumed stroking his back, thrilling to the faint tremors that shook his hand and the subtle arching of his body toward hers, like a cat seeking even more warmth. This close, she could feel the unmistakable stirring of his arousal and she knew, if she looked down, that her thin bra and t-shirt wouldn't be doing squat to hide hers.

"So what now?" she asked, her breath hitching ever so slightly.

A slightly breathless chuckle escaped. "I have no idea. I didn't even expect to be kissing you."

"Yet?" she teased, and was surprised when he didn't return her smile.

"I may talk big," he said quietly, "I may know what I want—more than anything—but I wasn't certain I'd ever have the guts to take the risk." He stroked her hair back from her face, his touch infinitely tender. "I honestly don't know if I can adequately express just what you mean to me—what your friendship means. And how just the thought of possibly losing it makes me feel." A huge sigh shuddered through him. "But at the same time you're… God, Karen—"

Wide-eyed, he stared down at her, clearly struggling—this so-often silent man who so-often struggled for the right words and so-often wound up blurting out the wrong ones—until finally he simply sighed again and said, "You're… _more_. I want you to be more."

Karen heard such a wealth of meaning in that single word—heard what could be the future, if she was as brave as he was allowing himself to be.

Moving her hands to his face, she cupped his warm cheeks, feeling the intimate rasp of his end-of-the-day stubble against her skin. "Yeah, you're right," she sighed. A smile tugged at her mouth as the familiar frown of consternation appeared.

"About?"

"It's definitely only a matter of time."

His mouth parted slightly, his pupils expanding as he stared down at her. "We'd better take those showers," he finally said, his voice hoarse. "Separately," he added quickly, even as Karen couldn't help but glance from him to her bathroom and its surprisingly spacious shower. Certainly large enough to accommodate two people—especially if they were creative.

Yet even as she flushed with renewed arousal and awareness of the attraction to Carlton that she could acknowledge now had gradually been building since the moment he'd first gently stroked her hair, she was also able to take a breath and step back—both physically and metaphorically. Patience and peace. And the certainty that things would happen as they would. In time.

Their time.

* * *

"I didn't have a chance to tell you the rest of my news."

He glanced up from perusing Carlito's menu. "There was more?"

"There was."

He set the menu aside. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"Not your fault. I was, um… distracted which, okay, _was_ your fault. Not that I minded."

As he lifted a dark eyebrow, she took a quick gulp of her margarita, trying to quell the heat rising in her cheeks.

Yeah… not enough tequila in the world. And any notion of patience would be shot to hell if he kept looking at her like that. And this was considering they were in public, for God's sake.

She leaned forward slightly grateful for the occasional fine mist drifting from the tiled fountain that gurgled quietly nearby, a pleasant accompaniment to the flamenco music that streamed from speakers hidden throughout the patio and wonderfully cooling against her overheated skin. How it didn't sizzle as it made contact and evaporate right off, she didn't know.

After deciding they were both in the mood for Mexican, and a strong-ass margarita or three, as Carlton had said with a slightly desperate air that had left Karen both flushed and a little proud, he'd requested the keys to her car, which she'd readily—if a bit bemusedly—handed over. Content to let him take them wherever he had in mind, she was nevertheless a little surprised when he drove the short distance to downtown and pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the Mission-style building that housed one of Santa Barbara's most popular Mexican restaurants. And found herself doubly surprised when he requested a table on the outdoor patio that fronted State Street. By no means was it the busiest stretch of Santa Barbara's main drag, but it was more than busy enough, especially located as it was across the street from the Arlington Theater.

In other words, they'd be dining publicly. In a place they were extremely likely to be seen by someone one or both of them knew.

Sure, they'd gone out for the occasional meal together in the past month, when cooking or ordering in had gotten old, but with the tacit understanding that had existed between them almost from the moment he cut her free from her mangled car, they'd stayed away from downtown, preferring to frequent more out-of-the-way establishments. Places where no one knew them.

Places where preconceived notions and past personas were not welcome.

However, it would appear he was surprisingly comfortable with who _they_ were. Comfortable enough to handle the likely possibility of being seen and whatever inference might be made by the sight of them, clearly relaxed, attention focused solely on each other in a way that would make it clear there had been a shift in their relationship.

For the first time she found herself wondering how many people were aware of the dissolution of his relationship with Marlowe. Knowing him, probably about as many as were aware of the dissolution of her own marriage, which was to say, precious few.

A fresh wave of emotion—so many emotions, some indefinable, some so sharp and clear as to leave her breathless—washed over her. He was here. With her. And damn whatever came next.

"Karen?"

She gazed down at his hand resting over hers, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist.

Swallowing hard, she managed, "You are _so_ very distracting," even as she turned her hand to more fully clasp his. Oh, yeah. If they were happened upon, not only would it be clear their relationship had shifted, but there would be no question as to the exact nature of the shift.

"I can't help myself," he replied, as if reading her mind. "_You_ are so very beautiful." With his free hand, he brushed a lock of hair from her face. "So what's your news?"

It took her a moment to recall what the word even meant, let alone that she had more, but finally, her hormones subsided enough to allow her brain cells to resume something approximating normal operations.

"It's about the house."

"What about it?" He leaned back in his chair, relaxed but clearly wary and she realized he was worried something bad had happened. Dammit. She had to remember that for Carlton, "news" more often than not equated "bad."

"Relax, honey," she soothed.

His hand tightened around hers at the exact moment the endearment slipped free and she momentarily worried she'd maybe gone too far. Pushed the bounds of intimacy too quickly. She hadn't meant to—at least, not intentionally. It had just tumbled out, of its own accord, and it had felt so natural and right and then… then… he smiled. Such a sweet, pleased smile, she found herself automatically breathing easier while at the same time wondering what else she could do to bring that smile to his face as frequently as possible. That's when her hormones piped back up, whispering wicked suggestions that left her squirming slightly in her chair, especially with his hand still warm and strong around hers and the flickering torchlight casting mysterious planes and shadows across his face that had her envisioning him in other dim, shadowy surroundings that had nothing to do with being in public, neither of them particularly inclined toward exhibitionism.

Yeah, that patience was already wearing pretty damned thin in a hurry.

"So everything's okay?"

After taking another restorative sip of margarita and scolding her hormones to settle the hell down, she said, "More than okay. Ed came by today."

"What about?"

She couldn't help the smile that broke out across her face. "He wanted to know if I was interested in buying the house."

Both of Carlton's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

She nodded. "He really doesn't want to have to be landlord over an off-site property."

Carlton nodded. "Code for he doesn't want to have to worry about it if he's off on the boat for days at a time."

Karen laughed. "Pretty much."

He fell silent then, staring off into the fountain while she quietly sipped from her margarita. Finally she said, "What's on your mind?"

He sighed. "I really can't hide anything from you, can I?"

"I hope you don't feel as if you ever have to."

She watched the muscles in the long column of his throat work as he swallowed. "I don't want to overstep my bounds," he said, his voice low.

She set her drink down and reached across the table for his other hand. "That's the old Carlton speaking."

"Actually, the old Carlton didn't tend to give a crap about bounds." He snorted. "Okay, maybe he did, but he sucked at recognizing them."

She laced her fingers with his, bringing their palms flush. "You really weren't that bad."

He snorted again. "Ask O'Hara about the first Christmas her family came to visit."

Karen really had no interest in asking O'Hara anything. Especially not about Carlton. She'd come to realize in the last month how very low her regard for the younger detective had dropped. Especially after taking into account as much as she and Carlton had talked and shared during all the countless hours spent together, he'd maybe mentioned his former partner—former best friend—a half dozen times.

If that.

"You're not going to lose me."

He glanced up, startled. Again, not what she'd intended to say—she'd intended to gently tease and cajole him to spit it out, already, but instinct had taken over and once again, had seen fit to give her the absolute right thing to say.

"Remarkable." He shook his head and smiled slightly.

"If you say so," she said lightly.

"I do."

"Okay, then—so what's on your mind?"

His smiled faded and he took a deep breath. "Can you afford it?"

He'd touched on the first concern she'd aired to Ed when he made his offer.

"Not right now," she admitted. "But—" she added quickly when she saw Carlton's expression shift, "when I said that to Ed, he said we could change our agreement to lease-to-own." She caressed the backs of his hands with her thumbs, needing to feel him against her, even in this small way.

"A lease option is well within my means right now as is an increase in rent to provide credit toward the down payment."

He nodded slowly. "For how long?"

"I think he'd like it to be a year, just so he could be out from under it sooner, but I think two might be better for getting all my personal and financial ducks in a row."

He fell silent again and again, she allowed him the time to think, to mull over whatever he wanted to say next. So few people had ever realized how very deliberate he was with words—mostly because he was so often pushed into speaking before he was ready. Prompted, in all likelihood, by the fact that he was always so quick—sometimes too quick—to action. With him, the two didn't necessarily go hand in hand.

The waiter came by and refreshed their drinks and took their orders, giving him a bit more time, but it wasn't until after the guacamole had been prepared and left on the table along with a basket of warm, fresh chips, that he finally spoke.

"Would you consider making it a year?" His head was bent, long fingers breaking a chip into small pieces, the crumbs littering the creamy white of the stoneware plate like bits of confetti.

Beneath the low, hesitant words, Karen heard the real question. Heard his hope and fear. Heard a man putting his heart—battered and bruised—on his sleeve.

Carefully she pried the remains of the chip free and took his hand in hers. It was growing increasingly difficult to let him go, she realized. Even after just a few hours.

Stroking his cheek with her free hand she waited for him to lift his gaze to hers, the blue clear and pale and mirroring everything she'd heard in his question.

"I would," she said softly.

Obvious relief lightened his features even as his eyes darkened slightly and again, she could read everything happening in the blue depths.

"I'm guessing Ed won't mind making the change, should it come to that." A crooked smile made the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes fan out.

Making his intentions known yet once again, exhibiting patience. And better still, acknowledging her own agency in what they shared.

She shifted her hand to his hair, stroking it, just once, her heart beating faster at the recognition that crossed his face. "I'm sure he won't mind at all."

"Whoa, that can't be—oh my God, it _is_."

"Shawn, no—"

"_Crap_," Carlton muttered while Karen thought something far more colorful.

"But Jules—"

"Shawn, this is a really bad idea."

"How is this a bad idea, Gus? We haven't seen them in forever. Even Jules said she hadn't seen Lassie in ages."

Karen spared Carlton a glance as the trio made their way across the street from the theater, moving more slowly than they might have otherwise, because Juliet and Gus were clearly trying to talk Shawn out of what was now his clear objective.

He shrugged. "It's shocking how easy it is to avoid running into someone."

"Who was doing the avoiding?" she asked quietly.

"Probably equal part on both sides." Tension held him rigid but to Karen's surprise, he maintained firm hold of her hand. Guess he really was comfortable with the thought of them being discovered. His annoyance probably had more to do with the _who_ rather than the actual discovery itself.

For her part, it was both the who and the fact that they'd barely had any time to themselves, never mind they'd just spent the better part of the last month in relative isolation. She didn't want anyone, least of all, Shawn Spencer, intruding on her—_their_—new life.

She realized then, that for the first time, she not only had no regrets about walking away from her old life—she had absolutely no desire to return to it. To any of it. All she needed was Iris. And Carlton.

"Put down the knife, sweetheart."

"What?"

A hint of a smile played about the edges of his mouth as he reached over with his free hand and gently pried the knife from her white-knuckled grip. "Wait for them to bring a steak knife, at least."

An answering smile tugged at her mouth. "I ordered a chimichanga, smartass."

"More's the pity," he teased, reaching up to brush the errant strand of hair from her face again.

Karen fought the impulse to bite her lower lip at the tenderness inherent in his touch, feeling all of sixteen years old overlaid with very grownup experience and desire.

"Carlton?"

Shock was evident in O'Hara's voice as the trio drew close enough to see what neither Carlton, nor Karen was taking any great pains to hide.

"O'Hara," he responded calmly. "Guster." He nodded at a clearly shell-shocked Gus, then with equal calm, reached out and sharply rapped the back of Shawn's hand, halting his not-subtle approach toward the basket of chips. "Back the hell off, Spencer."

"_Ow_, man!" Shawn snatched his reddened hand back and cradled it against his chest. "What'd you do that for?" As usual, not bothering to wait for an answer, he turned to face Karen.

"Chief!" he said brightly even as his hand sidled back toward the chips. Once again, Karen found her movement toward the knife restrained by Carlton's gentle grip and slight shake of his head.

Not that he'd been actually going for the chips this time, judging by the narrowing of his avid hazel gaze. He really thought he was so much more devious and subtle than he actually was. He also really thought the rest of the world populated by idiots.

Karen sighed. She did have to shoulder her share of responsibility for allowing that assumption to fester. Not that he needed any encouragement to consider the rest of the world stupid, but by allowing him to labor under the delusion that he had her fooled, she had certainly contributed to, well… all the hell and chaos of the past eight years.

She'd honestly thought herself at peace with that decision—that the gains of so many crimes solved had outweighed the many, many costs, including her career—but there was a very important piece of the puzzle her altruism had failed to account for six months earlier. That previously unaccounted for piece was currently holding her hand, his touch warm and strong and comforting, as if he could sense the turbulence of her emotions and their cause.

And in meeting his glance across the table she could see he'd already forgiven her—almost before she'd even realized how much she needed to know he could.

"Karen, will suffice, Mr. Spencer," she said, hearing a note in her voice she hadn't heard in six months. God, she had not missed that voice. "Or Ms. Dunlap, if you prefer."

She allowed herself a small smile at the very real shock that widened three sets of eyes.

_Take that, you nosy little pisher. _

But it was Juliet who spoke first, nothing more than a quiet, "Oh," that was immediately followed by a look toward her former partner.

"Not on the table for discussion, O'Hara," he said shortly.

A shadow of hurt passed across the younger woman's face as Karen realized she hadn't heard that once-familiar tone from him in the last month.

She hadn't missed that either.

She watched as O'Hara struggled with what, if anything, to say, while Spencer's gaze continued to move between them, missing nothing. However, for once, his avidness felt less intrusive and more... calmly speculative. Almost—dare she say it—thoughtful. Beside him, Guster shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere, up to and including a colonoscopy, but there.

Spencer and Guster were less a concern to her than O'Hara, the color continuing to drain from her face as her glance darted between Carlton and Karen, less prying for information in the way of her pushy boyfriend, but more with the dawning realization of just how much had changed in the last six months. How much she'd missed by allowing herself to be swept up in the maelstrom that was Shawn Spencer.

Karen got it—she really did. Juliet had been hit with a lot of uncomfortable realities and even more uncomfortable changes in a very short span of time. And of course, it was Shawn who would command her time and attention. Not that Carlton was any less powerful a force than Shawn nor had he been, Karen would wager, any less important to O'Hara, albeit in a different way. He was simply so much quieter, and therefore, easier to overlook. No doubt, too, Juliet had assumed Carlton happy in his personal life—at least happy enough to counter his demotion from Head Detective to patrol cop, even though as his partner, she should have been the first to realize how devastating a blow it would be. But assuming he was happy with Marlowe would have made it very easy to assuage any possible feelings of guilt. That would allow her to believe he was coping, especially since he wouldn't make a big deal of it if he wasn't. He wouldn't go whining and wailing and gnashing his teeth to all and sundry and twice on Sundays.

No, Carlton had simply very quietly gone about his business as he very quietly died a little inside every day.

And with each day that had slipped by without a "hello" or "how are you doing?" or a shared coffee during a break, the easier it had become to tell herself all was well. That he was okay, because he was Carlton and how could he be otherwise?

Now, six months later it was clear, all had not been well and Carlton hadn't been okay and Juliet hadn't been there at a moment when he would have needed her even if, being him, he would likely have fought her assistance. Maybe his marriage would have survived—maybe it wouldn't—but at least their friendship would have been given a fighting chance at recovery.

Now, however…

All this and more, Karen could read in Juliet's helpless gaze as it continued ranging between them.

Nice to know the detective skills were still intact.

Juliet and Carlton would have to talk. But not tonight. Tonight belonged to her and Carlton and they'd already given up more time than she was happy with.

Luckily, the arrival of their meals provided her with the perfect opening to smile a patently false smile and smoothly say, "Lovely to see you all. And Mr. Spencer, if you make another move toward my food, I will not hesitate to skewer you on my fork like a shish-kebab and don't even try saying anything about how this isn't a Middle Eastern restaurant."

"And I'm gonna take that as our cue to go," Gus said with obvious relief at being given an out. Moving behind Shawn he gave him a hard shove away from the low stucco wall as Juliet, still silent, tugged on his hand.

"Enjoy your dinner, Chief—uh… Karen, God, that's weird. Isn't that weird?" Shawn asked Gus, as they finally began making their painstaking way back across the street.

After the trio disappeared from sight, Spencer thankfully not popping out from behind the fountain our bursting out of a piñata, they ate silently for a bit, allowing the spell to gradually reestablish itself.

"I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten with O'Hara."

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "No worse than it was before the demotion. Not being pushed together every day just hastened the inevitable."

"It shouldn't have been inevitable."

"The minute she got involved with Spencer, it became inevitable."

"She fought hard for you in the woods." Karen suppressed a shiver as she recalled the various clips of Carlton that Spencer had seen fit to include in his "masterpiece." Being swept away by the river, his leg bloodied, body slumped prone over the rifle he'd so expertly wielded—the terrified pale blue of his eyes as he'd sat alone in the cold dark, shivering and saying what he thought were his last goodbyes.

He hadn't said any to her, she realized for the first time. Perversely, she was glad. She wanted no memories of goodbyes between them, no matter how premature they might have been.

He shrugged and drained the last of the beer he'd switched to with dinner. "Vestiges of the past. You know well as I do we tend to fall back on the familiar in intense situations and I, for one, am grateful if only because it allowed me to survive." His slow smile made it exceedingly clear just why he was so grateful.

And left her with a heightened sense of anticipation.

His journey with O'Hara may have come to an end—or at least was evolving into something far different than what it had once been—but theirs was only beginning.

"It's going to be a hell of a ride, isn't it?" she asked, reaching out to stroke his hair, allowing her fingers to linger in the soft, thick strands.

His smile broadened into the full-out grin that was as maddening as it was arousing. The grin that made him look almost impossibly Irish. "Full speed ahead."

"But with plenty of time to explore the scenic routes?"

His smile faded and once again, she could see his heart revealed even before he spoke. "I could spend the rest of my life exploring every road with you, Karen, and never get tired or want anything more."

Despite the public setting, despite the crowded patio, Karen nevertheless felt the need to be closer. Standing, she leaned across the table until her mouth brushed his in a light, sweet kiss.

"Better make sure we have a full tank of gas then."


	10. Deliberate Intent

**Deliberate Intent**

**AN:** In the second half of this chapter, I am taking artistic license with just how far Trout might be able to knock Carlton down, technically speaking. Also, I am once again borrowing Loafer's designation of Patricia as Sergeant Allen's first name.

* * *

Steaming fresh mug of coffee in hand, Carlton eased himself down into his Adirondack chair and stretched his legs out with a contented sigh.

He honestly had no business being quite this relaxed and contented. Okay, yes, it was a beautiful Sunday morning and he had good coffee and all things considered, his life was a hell of a lot better than he might have ever expected. Especially if one had asked a month ago.

Hell, a month ago, if anyone had asked how his life was, he'd have probably snapped, "What life?"

And meant it.

Because breathing just enough to get through the day didn't really count as a life, did it?

But things had changed—boy, howdy had they changed—in ways he not only might never have expected, but again, if it had been so much as suggested to him _this_ was what his life would be in a month's time, he would've been speed-dialing for the men in white coats and advising them to bring the good meds.

But this _was_ his life: beautiful Sunday morning, good coffee, comfortable chair, and a woman he would never have expected to recognize he even had a heart, let alone, _want_ the thing, holding it in her very capable, graceful, if still-slightly-blue-stained hands.

Yep. Life was pretty damned good.

Even so, he really had no business being this relaxed and contented.

Because he hadn't been able to see said woman since Friday, and worse—or better, depending on opinion and tolerance for slow torture—his primary form of contact with her had been a series of texts, increasing in longing with each hour spent apart. Even though it did have to qualify as some crazy kind of torture, he pulled his phone out—again—and read their latest exchange—_again_.

_Hey, handsome. _

_Hello, beautiful, yet clearly in need of a vision check. Is Iris down?_

_My vision is just fine, thank you and out like a light. The beach wore her out. I'd call you, but I'm afraid if start talking, she'll wake up._

_Texting's fine. How are you doing?_

_Exhausted. She wore *me* out. _

_Children are known to do that._

_Yeah—they are._

_..._

_What is it?_

_What?_

_What's bothering you, Karen?_

_How do you do that?_

_Do what?_

_Just… know?_

_Because even though I'm a mile away and it feels like a hundred, I still feel as if I'm right there with you. And I can feel that something's upsetting you. Whose ass do I have to kick?_

_Stand down, honey. No ass kicking necessary._

_Then what?_

_It's just… I know it's only been two weeks since I last saw her and it's only been a month of this arrangement, but I feel as if I'm missing out on so much with her. I miss *her* so much._

_I know you do. I only wish I could help._

_You do. More than you can ever know._

_I'm not sure how, but I'm glad._

_I told you—don't do that. Don't disparage yourself. Don't dismiss everything you've done. Through all of this you've been my rock, Carlton. I'm not sure I could have gotten through this last month without you._

_Yes, you could have, because you're the strongest woman I know._

_Okay, I could have—but it would've been a hell of a lot more difficult. And now, I can't imagine going through any of this without you._

…

_Carlton? Are you still there?_

_I am. Would you think I'm an idiot if I said I miss you?_

_Not at all. I feel the same way. And I wish you were here._

_I wish I was there, too._

_Carlton?_

_Yeah?_

_You know…_

_What?_

_I… I bought this bed new. _

_I know. I was with you._

_Which means I've never shared this bed with anyone._

_Karen, you're making this mile we're separated by feel like a thousand._

_I know… I know… I'm sorry. But I'm lying here, alone, in this bed that I've never shared with anyone else, talking to the only person I *want* to share it with, and desperately wishing he was here. With me. In this bed._

_*thunk*_

_Thunk?_

_That was the sound of my head, hitting the headboard of *my* bed. My cold, lonely-ass bed._

_Oh, baby… I'm sorry._

_I like that._

_Hitting your head?_

_Smartass._

_:-) What is it that you like?_

_What you call me. The endearments. They make me feel… _

_What?_

_Special. Yours._

_You are, you know. If I'm not being too presumptuous in saying so._

_You're not._

_I'm glad. Carlton?_

_Yeah?_

_You know I'm… yours, too, right?_

_No you're not, Karen. Not yet. The day you're mine is the day we're together. Always. And if it's all right with you, that day will be coming sooner rather than later._

_Oh God, yes— yes. _

…

_My turn. You still there?_

_Yes._

_You're thinking._

_Yes._

_About? _

_I thought when you said "a matter of time" it meant you weren't quite ready yet for… us. At least, not the "always" us. Which trust me, I understand. I don't want to push, and I know it's scary, for both of us and complicated…_

_You're not pushing and yes, it's kind of scary but at the same time, it's not and maybe it should feel more complicated, but it doesn't. The honest truth is, Karen, "a matter of time" seems to have grown much shorter in a hurry._

…

_Okay, now the silence is making *me* nervous._

_No worries. I'm just thinking again._

_About?_

_Ways to keep the bed warm for you._

_*THUNK* _

_*THUNKTHUNKTHUNK*_

_LOL Carlton, I—_

_Yeah?_

_I… matter of time._

_Me, too, Karen._

_Sleep well._

_As if._

_Soon, baby._

_Very soon._

* * *

His head landed against the back of the Adirondack with the same hollow _thunk_ as it had against his headboard. Like the night before, it didn't even come close to dulling the ache of being apart from Karen. Or the ache of feeling like maybe he'd gone too far. Said too much. Given too much away.

And that was taking into account all that had transpired since that first innocent yet monumentally scorching kiss prior to Thursday night's dinner. Which had been followed by more kisses _after_ dinner. Quite a lot of kisses, as a matter of fact, sitting in her car in his driveway like a pair of lovelorn teenagers, hands ghosting over body parts that wanted to be touched more completely and investigated more thoroughly, without the bothersome impediment of clothes, but knowing if even so much as one finger wandered into dangerous territory, there would be no stopping. That had been followed in turn by a reluctant parting, only for his phone to ring as soon as she arrived home—letting him know she'd traversed that scant mile between their houses safely, as he'd requested—followed by hours of conversation, not dissimilar to the conversations they'd been having for the past month, but more hushed, more intimate, more… everything. Nothing of the changes in their relationship spelled out in any great detail, yet so much nevertheless shared and revealed.

The next day, in between putting the second coat of paint on her living room walls as planned, they'd kissed even more. Wanted more. And knowing, even with _more_ within easy reach and so desperately wanted, they nevertheless needed the breathing room her weekend with Iris would provide.

He'd _sworn_ to himself he would go slow. He hadn't been joking when he told her he didn't want to jeopardize their friendship. Plus, both of them so recently out of relationships and Karen dealing with the trauma of losing custody of Iris and adjusting to the new reality of her life. The last thing they needed was to rush into anything new—even if the term "rushing" seemed sort of ridiculous, given how many years they'd known each other.

But they'd only really know each other for a month.

Except she knew him so damned well.

And he knew her. Better than he would have ever imagined.

But they _had_ to go slow. For both their sakes. He knew neither of them could deal with another broken relationship. Another loss.

So yes—slow. It was the wise choice. The right choice.

Then she'd texted him Friday night after Iris was down.

Then again on Saturday night.

And here it was Sunday morning and… and… well… _yeah_.

Part of him could scarcely believe the words on the screen even with as many times as he'd read them. Could hardly accept he'd said all that to Karen. To _Karen_, for God's sake. Quite possibly the last woman he would have ever imagined feeling as if he could lay such definitive claim to. Not only because for all the years of their acquaintance she'd been married and therefore, off-limits—although he could confess he'd thought her quite lovely because _hello _he wasn't dead—but more because she was Karen Vick. Chief of Police. Quite possibly one of the most independent, self-contained, capable, confident women he'd ever met in his entire life.

If ever there was a woman who he would expect to rebel against _any_ man—let alone a blustering, alpha male asshat such as himself—laying claim on her…

And yet, she seemed to welcome it. As much as she seemed to equally relish being able to stake her claim on him, turning him into absolute putty in her lovely, graceful, slightly blue-paint-stained hands when he would have thought himself dead inside and past feeling—past _wanting_ to feel—all the different emotions she inspired.

He couldn't help but wonder just how toxic those paint fumes might be.

At that moment, his phone buzzed in his hand.

_Stop overthinking._

He grinned and set his mug aside so he could more effectively type.

_It's what I do._

_Stop it. I meant every damned word I said._

_I was just mulling over the possibility of toxic paint fumes._

An instant after he hit Send, the phone rang—he'd barely touched the screen to answer before he heard her familiar voice.

"Don't even joke about it, Carlton." Her voice was low, yet nevertheless intense and provoked an answering shiver down his spine.

"Where's Iris?"

"Getting dressed so we can go out to breakfast and don't try to derail the conversation."

"I'm sorry, baby. It's just—"

"It's just the light of day and you're worried it's too much, too fast. You're worried about me. If I've lost my mind or something."

Despite the cool morning air, he felt a flush creeping up from the collar of his t-shirt. "Well… yeah," he confessed.

"Maybe I have," she said softly. "But if I'm losing my mind, I'm wondering why in the hell I didn't let it happen sooner. Outside of missing my little girl more than I can adequately express, I feel better than I have in _years_, Carlton. I haven't been this firm in my convictions since the day I decided to become a cop. My destination may still be a mystery, but my path—it's clearly marked. And my companion, revealed." Her voice dropped a notch, becoming dark and intimate in the way it had during their epic Thursday night conversation. "Believe me, I'm good."

After regaining the ability to breathe, he finally managed to reply, "Dear God, are you ever."

"Oh honey, you have _no_ idea." Her laugh vibrated in his ear, a soft, sensuous sound that left him feeling as if she was there beside him. He could practically feel her breath, warm on his skin, her lips teasing the rim of his ear.

"Christ, cold showers suck." And even though he was alone, he shifted in his chair, angling himself in such a way that his sudden condition wasn't readily obvious.

"Oh?"

"I've become intimately reacquainted with them since Thursday."

"Oh." The long, drawn-out sigh that followed the single, expressive syllable made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rise. "I wish I could see you tonight."

"It's probably better that you can't." Since she had Iris until the next morning when she would drop her off at school.

"I know." She sighed again, this time, an air of definite frustration coloring the sound. "Were you ever irresponsible, Carlton? Just did whatever you wanted for the hell of it with no thoughts as to the consequences?"

He paused, then answered simply, "Yes." The flush of arousal settled down into the constant simmer with which he was also growing increasingly familiar. "Which is why it's better that we wait. I'm bound to make mistakes Karen, but I don't ever want to give you reason or cause to regret anything about our relationship."

"Our relationship," she repeated, her tone wondering. "We have a relationship, Carlton."

He released a long, slow breath and stretched his legs out, the sun's warmth not even close to touching what Karen made him feel.

"Yeah. We do. We really do."

* * *

Monday morning, Carlton strode into the SBPD feeling, if not the same sense of purpose and excitement as he once had, then at least, a far greater measure of acceptance of his current situation. Patrol wasn't bad at all—especially not out in the sticks. Much more time to think about Karen. Think about his future. Plan for _their_ future.

Right now, he was just marking time. Waiting to see what options Karen would consider and what she would choose to do so he could plan his next move accordingly. Knowing that was the case allowed him to face the day with a much brighter—at least for now—outlook. His day wouldn't truly brighten or even feel as if it started until the moment he could see Karen.

"Officer Lassiter."

What a prick. Trout may have had him busted down to patrol, but due to his years of service, had only been able to demote him from Captain to Sergeant. Referring to him as "Officer" was not only incorrect, it was clearly designed to get under his skin.

_Good luck with that, buddy._

Carlton finished signing in and accepted the keys to his assigned cruiser from Sergeant Allen with a smile that left her at first wide-eyed, before her gaze narrowed into a stare that could only be called speculative. She'd bust him eventually and honestly? Carlton was okay with that. Patricia Allen was one of the very few people who knew not only of the dissolution of his relationship with Marlowe, but the details, as she'd been in the position to field phone calls directed to him at the station, his desk with its private line having been a casualty of his demotion. Initially he'd considered warning her off blabbing his business with one of his patented Lassiter growls but he'd been just so goddamned tired, it hadn't seemed worth the effort.

To his surprise, not only had she not blabbed, she hadn't even pumped him for further information or provided any crystal-and-incense waving New Age platitudes. She'd simply smiled at him, every morning as she handed him his keys, often along with a coffee in a lidded travel mug, prepared just the way he liked it.

In other words, she'd been… nice.

Initially, he hadn't given a rat's ass. But as she continued smiling and nodding and providing him with coffee, prepared just the way he liked it, he'd softened. At least enough so that he didn't snarl. Enough so that he nodded in return. Enough so that he eventually said thanks as she handed over the keys. On occasion smiled. Maybe just a little.

And when one of those patently fake Hallmark Holidays had rolled around—some media-created nonsense called Hug Your Badger or Administrative Personnel Day or some such—he'd arranged to have lunch delivered to her. Anonymously, of course.

But the next week, a small cinnamon roll—obviously homemade—had started accompanying his coffee, the contraband mysteriously appearing in whatever cruiser he was assigned that day so as to evade Trout's No Pastry Policy.

"Officer—"

Carlton rolled his eyes, earning a smile that Allen hid behind a sneeze and ducking her head into her paperwork, before turning to face his superior. For the moment.

"Sir," he said, parroting Trout's slightly mocking cadence back at him. The red that immediately mottled the other man's pasty complexion served as ample evidence his shot had hit the mark, dead on. Never again would he kowtow to this cocky little bastard—he could hardly believe he ever had. There went the Spencer Effect again—rendering him so desperate to distance himself from the idiot's shenanigans he'd all but sniveled and sucked up to the toadying little weasel.

Perpetually constipated expression souring further, Trout puffed himself up, thinking the extra two inches he had on Carlton made him seem intimidating. Carlton suppressed a yawn and resisted the temptation to look down at his watch.

"I'm assuming, since you've been taking an inordinate amount of leave of late, you haven't yet become aware of the most recent departmental developments."

Well, that didn't take long. Carlton _was_ surprised Trout was making a point to tell him himself, but considering the nature of the "development" the arrogant ass probably relished what he would likely consider an opportunity to dig the knife in further and twist.

"Sir?" he queried, watching with distant amusement as Trout flushed further. He could almost hear Karen's voice in his head cautioning him to tone it down—that pimply-faced hormonal Future Spencers in a smelly, chalk-dusted classroom were but one smartass "Sir" away.

"Ms. Vick—"

Carlton tensed at both the title and the name but fought to keep his expression neutral, given how Trout's beady little eyes were fixed on him.

"Won't be rejoining us any time soon. She put in for and has been granted a leave extending past her suspension."

"I see." Carlton stood very still, not even fidgeting with the keys in his palm.

"Apparently, she needed some personal time after losing custody of her kid." Said in a tone that suggested Karen was all manner of weak for needing time to recover from a devastating, life-changing event. "Can't say I'm surprised."

With a conscious effort, Carlton kept his voice mild as he asked, "Sir?" even as the hair on the back of his neck prickled with uneasy awareness.

"I was called as a character witness in the custody hearing. " Trout puffed up further, this time with a clear sense of self-importance and the distinct air of having performed his due diligence.

Heat and tension began creeping up his spine. "You barely know her—why would you have been called?"

Trout smirked. "Because I'm a professional consultant who'd conducted a performance review of her behavior in the workplace. My assessment was deemed relevant because the overall nature of her job was an issue with respect to custody plus it was going to factor into determining her fitness as a parent."

"What the hell did you tell them?" In a tiny, divorced corner of his mind, Carlton was aware he'd dropped all pretense of calm disinterest. Frankly, he didn't give a good goddamn. He would get answers from the little shitweasel if he had to shake them out of him.

Trout's smirk devolved into an outright sneer. "I told them she exercised little to no discipline or control over the department. That she allowed Spencer to run amok, flouting protocol and procedure with absolutely no fear of retribution and no consequences administered. That it was my professional and considered opinion the department's record was achieved in spite of her as opposed to because of her leadership, of which I suspected she had precious little."

The sneer shifted into a look of supreme satisfaction as he added, "In other words, I told the truth. That woman shouldn't be trusted with custody of a gerbil, let alone a child."

From the tiny, divorced, distant corner of his mind, Carlton observed Trout standing there, in all his Brylcreamed, starched-collar, ramrod-straight, smug, self-satisfaction, absolutely certain he'd done not only the right thing, but the only thing.

That could have been him, he realized.

_Would_ have been him if not for the woman who now waited for him. The beautiful brown-eyed blonde who'd blown into his life, taking the job he'd coveted, and proceeded to turn his life upside down with her unorthodox—and yes, damned successful—approach to police work and leadership.

It was that tiny, divorced distant corner of his mind that took control, nodding and saying, "I see," and even registering a faint sense of pleasure at the shadow of disappointment that crossed Trout's face at his non-reaction. That very calmly added, "If there's nothing else, sir, I need to be getting to my patrol," and waited for Trout's frowning nod.

That same distant corner of his mind propelled him back to the desk where Allen waited with his coffee and a furious expression, clearly having heard the entire exchange. That expression shifted to concern when he very calmly,from that same distant place said, "I need a copy of Form Seven VR."

"Oh, Detective," she started, reverting to form, but paused, her expression shifting further from concern to a dawning understanding. Brisk, now, she tapped on her keyboard. "I just emailed it to you," she said, mouth set in a grim line. "If you get it back to me by lunchtime, I can fast-track it. Should be approved by tomorrow." Her mouth thinned further. "I'll get with my connections—make sure it is."

Dark eyes skewered him with a shrewd stare. "If you're certain, that is."

"Dead certain."

"Consider it done." She nodded and handed him his coffee. "All I ask is one favor."

Carlton paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Just make certain I'm here?"

They exchanged grim smiles. "Consider it done."

* * *

The pieces set in motion provided him with an almost preternatural sense of calm. Enough so Karen clearly sensed nothing amiss when he arrived at his duplex to find her waiting . It worked in his favor, too, she was more than a bit distracted by the still-new and very painful experience of having to say goodbye to Iris for another two weeks. She was putting up a brave front, but the faintly wounded look in her eyes gave her away—and strengthened his resolve as he held her close on his sofa, stroking her hair, content to sit with her nestled against him, murmuring soothing words until she drifted off to sleep, a few tears clinging to her lashes.

They remained like that all night, slowly waking in the weak pre-dawn light, gazing at each other before she sighed again and dropped her head to his shoulder, her trust in him so complete, he felt himself nearly overwhelmed by the sheer force of it.

He may have been holding her, offering her comfort and support, but _she_ was the source of his strength. He could only pray she understood that.

When he finally rose to get ready for work, he carried her to his bed, pulling back the covers and tucking her in with a kiss before taking a quick shower and dressing. Clad in his uniform, immaculate and sharply-creased, as protocol dictated, he paused once more by his bed, where a drowsy, yet awake Karen watched his every move.

"Try to get some rest," he said quietly, brushing her hair back from her face, his thumb stroking the strong, proud line of her jaw. "Coffee's made and waiting for you whenever you get up."

"My hero," she said, her voice holding a husky, early morning note. Soon—very soon—he'd be hearing that note every morning.

He hoped.

"You don't need a hero," he responded, echoing the words he'd said to her—was it only five days ago? A lifetime.

"But I hope you'll let me be here for you in all the ways that matter—big and small."

Her hand rose to his face. "That's a hero in my book."

He covered her hand with his. "I want to be more, Karen." He turned his head to ghost a kiss across her palm.

"You already are." Her eyes were huge, dark beacons in the dim light of the bedroom. "And Carlton?"

"Yes?"

She held his gaze, hers unblinking and intense. "Time's up, okay?" she said, imbuing the phrase with unmistakable meaning.

He nodded and leaned forward to brush his mouth against hers, a light caress that was all he could permit himself. For now.

"Tonight," he whispered against her mouth. "And always."

A promise to her—a prayer for himself.

With another light kiss he left, promising to call her at his lunch break. Upon his arrival at the SBPD, he went through his usual morning routine of signing in, accepting the keys to that day's cruiser along with his coffee from Sergeant Allen, who met his gaze with a nod and a small smile.

All systems go.

As a familiar, lumbering stride echoed down the tiled hallway, Carlton took a long, restorative sip of coffee. With great care and deliberation, he then placed the cup on the counter alongside his keys, his badge, his sidearm, and the signed and approved paperwork Allen had handed him along with the keys and coffee.

And as the heavy steps drew closer, Carlton turned… smiled…

And decked the ever-loving crap out of Harris Trout.


	11. The Choices We Make

**The Choices We Make**

* * *

_Tonight_…

Karen had expected she'd lie awake after Carlton left, too stimulated by the enormous maelstrom of emotion swirling through her. Devastated over having said goodbye to Iris again. Upset by the knowledge that yes, this was her new reality. Saddened beyond measure she'd have nothing more than her baby girl's voice for the next two weeks.

At the complete opposite end of the spectrum, comforted by Carlton's support and care. Aroused by the idea of lying in _his_ bed, surrounded by the scents of sandalwood and ocean and crisp cotton.

Knowing what was going to happen.

_Tonight and always…_

She'd imagined it would likely happen in her bed—the bed she'd never shared with another and could only imagine sharing with him—but in the end, it didn't matter. Lying beneath soft cotton sheets and wrapped in the memory of his gaze—muted and softened by the room's dimness as he'd leaned forward and brushed an impossibly gentle kiss against her mouth—she'd drifted back off to sleep, secure in the knowledge that the only thing that mattered was Carlton.

Her and Carlton—together.

Tonight and always.

She awoke slowly, bathed in daylight and a sense of peace that had been lacking for far too long but that gradually, had reestablished itself in her life, borne in on the most unlikely persona of the cranky, mouthy, arrogant man who'd so often driven her up a wall.

He still drove her up a wall. Still for all the same reasons.

As well as altogether different reasons.

She lingered in his bed, content to watch dust motes drift lazily through a shaft of sunlight, her thoughts drifting right along with them. Turning on her side, she nuzzled the pillow and smiled. Soft. The pillow, the sheets, the comforter, lofty with down—this tough, hard-edged man had a definite taste for softness and high-quality comfort in the privacy of his own room. Even the bed itself—her grin broadened as she pressed lightly on the mattress, feeling the give of the plush pillow top cushioning the undeniably firm mattress beneath. Not unlike the mattress he'd encouraged her to buy for herself, assuring her it was well worth the expense. Besides, she desperately needed the good rest it was sure to provide.

The firmness would be good for her back, too. Especially after all the painting and garden work they'd been doing.

If she wanted, that is. It was her bed after all. And just a suggestion on his part. A good one, mind, excellent, really, when it came down to it, but still—

Mildly bemused at his vehemence, accompanied as it was by his signature gruffness and the faint blush that cast his features in an endearingly boyish light, she'd agreed and taken off to inform the saleswoman of her decision, where she'd fought off a blush of her own as the sweet-faced older woman complimented her on a fine choice and with an entirely-too-bawdy wink, said she was quite certain Karen and her husband would just love it.

Husband.

Karen sighed, the sheer curtains at the open window rippling gracefully in the light breeze as if in commiseration.

Obviously, quite a ways from there… for now. However, it wasn't an unrealistic outcome to consider, even at so early a point in their relationship. They both carried within them a deep need for that bond, the understanding they were each half of a whole.

Didn't mean it had to be formal or even legal, when it came down to it. It would be enough for them to privately acknowledge they belonged to each other and would never be torn asunder.

_Tonight and always_…

Content and relaxed, she drifted a bit more, finally rising after a while to make her way to the bathroom where she discovered the toothbrush he'd given her that first morning propped in the cup alongside his, while a fresh towel and neatly folded t-shirt lay waiting on the vanity.

_All the ways that matter—big and small…_

As if she already hadn't been dead certain she was in love with him, these small gestures that in her heart loomed so large, would have tipped the scales.

After showering she wandered into the kitchen, clad in nothing but the t-shirt that reached just past mid-thigh, and found a note beside the coffeemaker anchored by a clean mug.

_Make sure you eat something._

His voice practically rang from the page as she poured the still-hot brew and added cream and sugar. Bossy. Imperious. Less request or suggestion than demand.

_So_ like him.

And within the short missive she could also practically hear the concern that softened his voice when he spoke to her. Could see the care reflected in those expressive blue eyes—the emotion he was so effective at masking from the rest of the world but that he allowed her to see.

Also so like him.

Knowing he'd ask when he called her on his lunch break, she poured herself a bowl of cereal, grinning at the incongruity of big, bad Carlton Lassiter having a secret vice for Cocoa Puffs. As she returned the box to the pantry, she made a quick of survey of its contents as well as those of the refrigerator, shaking her head at the relative barrenness. _Such_ a bachelor.

Although it was surprising, since he was rather an accomplished cook, quite ably demonstrated during their many lunches and dinners.

Goosebumps rose along her arms.

Oh.

_Oh_…

Carlton's pantry and refrigerator were relatively barren because for the past month, he'd spent the vast majority of his time with her. At her house.

No…their house.

Many of his favorites already residing in the pantry and refrigerator, from lunch meats to beer and even fruits and vegetables. Hell, she even had a bottle of Jameson Reserve in her liquor cabinet alongside the specific vintages of Syrah to which he'd introduced her, showing a particular fondness for the rich, earthy red.

If the kitchen lacked his breakfast favorites, it was only because he'd yet to be there for that meal—a circumstance that would be changing very soon—but for all intents and purposes, yeah…

_Their_ house.

From the kitchen to the wall colors to the furniture he'd helped her choose and in many cases, assemble, to clearing the small yards and planning their future layout, Carlton had been an integral part of the house's evolution.

And hers.

With a sigh she leaned against the counter with her bowl, eating the chocolate cereal with a joy she hadn't experienced since childhood. The thoughts drifting through her mind, however, were decidedly _not_ childlike. Oh nosirreebob, they were not. She shivered anew recalling each kiss shared since Thursday, none making her shiver more than the most recent—the delicate, almost chaste caress just before he'd left this morning.

So innocent yet holding so much promise and love—she'd been more certain than ever that she couldn't wait any longer to be fully and unequivocally his.

_Tonight… and always._

Yes. And oh, yes.

It was as she was finishing the last swallow of the chocolate-flavored milk—_still_ the best part of any bowl of Cocoa Puffs—that her phone began buzzing. Idly, since she it was still far too early for it to be Carlton, she turned the phone over, frowning as she noted the name on the screen.

Oh, hell no. If O'Hara thought she was going to gain points or insight or whatever by approaching her first rather than speaking directly to Carlton she had another thing coming. And outside of Carlton, she couldn't imagine a single reason the younger woman would be calling her.

Outside of Carlton…

She snatched the phone up and hit the answer button.

"Is he all right?" she demanded without preamble.

"Chief, thank God—" O'Hara's voice was breathless and higher-pitched than usual with an edge Karen easily recognized as panic even though she'd so rarely ever heard it from Juliet.

"Dammit, O'Hara, is he all right?"

O'Hara's deep breath was evident, even over the connection. "Depends on how you define 'all right.'"

A faint red haze dropped over Karen's vision as she wondered where Carlton kept his spare weapons. She knew, because he'd told her one night, he no longer felt the need to keep eight guns, but he was who he was. In addition to his service weapon, he maintained a spare sidearm in addition to the late 19th century Colt six-shooters in their presentation case—a gift from Hank Mendel upon Carlton's being awarded his Master's Degree.

As Carlton explained it, Hank had been more proud of Carlton's educational achievements than even his many accomplishments as a cop. To this day Carlton remained mystified even if to Karen it made perfect sense. In his tales of Hank and indirectly, his childhood, vestiges of the shy, insecure boy he'd been had emerged—a picture painted of the torment school had been due to a deep-seated shyness he attempted to mask with a prickly arrogance, and exacerbated by being hopelessly out of step with the vast majority of his peers. His gawky build and the less-than-traditional looks that were still several years from evolving into their current classic handsomeness had also served to make him a choice target, ripe for the cruel taunts at which adolescents were so brutally adept.

That he'd braved academia past what was strictly necessary—and had succeeded so admirably—was absolutely a feat worthy of commemoration.

And not important right this moment beyond wondering where in the hell he kept those guns and was the ammunition close by?

"O'Hara, do not play games with me."

"Chief—Karen—" she hastily corrected herself as if suddenly remembering they were now, in fact, equals. More or less. "I'm sorry, I'm honestly not trying to play games. It's just this is all so… so… Oh, hell, it's unbelievable is what it is. Even for Carlton."

Her voice retained a panicked edge, but had steadied enough that Karen felt her own breathing easing. He wasn't hurt. Or worse. Instinctively she knew that. But her instincts—the ones that had served her so very well throughout so many years of police work and had made her so very successful, damn whatever Trout had _assessed_, the idiot blowhard—told her something was also very, very wrong.

"What happened to Carlton?"

O'Hara took another deep breath.

"He's been arrested."

Very, very, _very_ wrong.

"Oh, dear God—what the hell did he do?"

"Assaulted Trout."

Somehow, she'd known, even before O'Hara spoke. Which was why she was able to reply, relatively calmly, "I see."

"Trout's loaded for bear, if you'll forgive the animal metaphors."

"S'okay," Karen said absently as she began moving back toward Carlton's bedroom, her mind already racing with the details of what had to be done. "I've often thought he needed to be slapped with himself."

A sharp, surprised laugh erupted on the other end of the line.

"What time's his arraignment?" Karen asked as she stepped into Carlton's closet, surveying the contents with a critical eye.

"Two-thirty."

"I'll be at the station by one."

"I'll have your visitor badge ready and text you which entrance to meet me at so you can avoid der Führer."

Left unsaid was that Karen would not have to enter via the front doors or go through the formality of signing in.

Allies were a good thing. And whatever else she might think of O'Hara, Karen knew, simply by dint of this phone call and the tone of her voice, that she was firmly in the ally camp—at least where Carlton was concerned.

At least for now.

What the future held for the former partners and friends, that would up to them to sort out.

After Karen got him out of this mess.

"Thanks," she said, as she moved hangers, pulling out the occasional one to survey its contents with a critical eye.

"No problem. See you in a bit."

"Juliet?"

"Yeah?"

"How bad was it?"

O'Hara paused, cleared her throat, then quietly said, "Trout never saw it coming. And for the near future, he won't be seeing much of anything out of his left eye."

Karen knew she was potentially courting bad karma but she simply couldn't help herself.

She laughed.

Long and hearty and with a lightness of spirit she hadn't felt in ages, even as she acknowledged the devastating impact this would have on Carlton's career—what was left of it. But if he was going out, he was going out on as much of his terms as possible—at the mercy of no man—or Trout.

She didn't think it was possible, but as she laughed, Karen felt herself falling even more in love with Carlton Lassiter.

* * *

***AN: **A special thanks to Loafer for providing me with the line about Trout being slapped with himself. It was too perfect to not use.


	12. Roller Coasters & Midway Games

**Roller Coasters & Midway Games**

* * *

The holding cells in the Santa Barbara Police Department really weren't all that bad. Fairly spacious, decently ventilated, and if the cots lacked in the comfort department, that was only as was right and proper. Drunks sleeping off a bender didn't give much of a damn about the thin mattresses and common criminals didn't deserve anything better. Although obviously, Carlton would never consider himself on the same level as a common criminal—if he was going to break the law, by God, he was going to break it with authority and panache. Still, he had broken the law, and now like criminals since time immemorial found himself passing time in the pokey. But again—not bad. Not bad at all.

Much like patrolling out in the sticks, it was quiet, there were few responsibilities, and best of all, it provided him with plenty of time to replay that single perfect moment when his fist had connected with Trout's astonished face.

The shock and pain registering on the man's doughy features, the red blooming around his eye like a flower in full glory, frozen into a perfect image Carlton would savor for years to come.

On the downside, however, depending on how cranky Trout chose to be—and given that Carlton had decked him in full view of most of the department and Patricia Allen's cell phone camera with its quick uplink to You Tube, it was likely pretty damned cranky—it was a good bet Carlton would be held long enough to definitely miss his promised lunchtime phone call to Karen and damn it all to hell, might not even make it home tonight.

God. _Tonight_.

He'd thought long and hard during the drive in whether he should go through with his plan this morning. Had very nearly chosen to delay it twenty-four hours if only because of his promise to Karen of tonight.

But every time he thought,_ God,_ _tonight_…_ always _would be right there, reminding him it wasn't simply about tonight. He and Karen—they were in it for _always_. It was a source of wonder to him—this absolute certainty after such a short time and with no outright words of love or commitment exchanged. At least, not in the traditional sense. They'd already said all they needed to say to each other for him to know without a doubt—_always_. As such, he'd known he would never be able to give himself completely to Karen tonight so long as the memory of her stricken face as he'd held her the night before lingered in his mind along with the knowledge of how Trout and his supercilious, mealy-mouthed, _bull_ had contributed to that look.

He had promised. He _would_ be there for her, in all the ways, big and small, and so to that end, _tonight_ had been sacrificed for his newly realized dreams and hopes for the promise of _always _with Karen. He could only pray she saw it the same way.

He was fairly certain she would. She was reasonable. Cool. Level-headed. Able to see all sides of a situation and determine the best course. Very able to judge an action on its own merits.

Of course, she might not consider punching his boss' lights out a good course of action. Truthfully, she'd probably be furious with him for committing what she would most assuredly consider a rash, ill-thought, stupid, career-ending act, but he was fairly certain once he explained his rationale, she'd understand and in the end, forgive him.

That is, after she pistol-whipped him—yeah—then she would _definitely_ forgive him.

He hoped.

He sighed and punched the thin, lumpy pillow beneath his head. Not for the first time did he regret using his one allotted phone call on his union rep instead of Karen, but he'd known he wouldn't have near enough time to explain the circumstances and the last thing she needed to do was show up at the station. Trout was a lot of things, but overtly stupid wasn't one of them. Let Karen come steaming in full of ire and obvious concern for Carlton, and it wouldn't take the de facto police chief long to pinpoint her as the source of his outburst. Trout did _not_ need to be given any more ammunition with which to attack her on a personal level—and Carlton had no doubts the weaselly little bastard _would_ attack.

A punch to the eye was the least of what Trout would have to fear if he even breathed his foul, Balance Bar-scented breath anywhere near Karen. Carlton's blood boiled and his fists clenched in the rough sheet beneath him at the mere thought.

"I hope that ferocious expression is you evaluating just how monumentally stupid your actions this morning were."

He bolted upright, head swimming at the sudden shift. As his vision cleared, the image took form, sharpening from a shimmering, backlit mirage into the very real woman, eyebrow raised, arms crossed, annoyance radiating in palpable waves and so damned gorgeous, he physically hurt from the impact of seeing her.

"Karen—" Her name emerged not so much as sound as a breath—a heartbeat—an essential part of his soul and if that made him a romantic sap, so be it.

Though her stance didn't shift so much as a millimeter, the expression in her eyes softened, propelling him across the cell to stand opposite her, only the bars separating them.

"How did you—"

"I called her."

O'Hara emerged from the shadows, pausing only to hang a garment bag from the bars of the adjoining cell before coming to stand alongside Karen.

"Would that have been before or after you booked me?" he asked, his tone dry but lacking any real bitterness.

She hit him with one of the level blue glances that used to be so much a part of his day. "You know Trout is all about the dog and pony show, Carlton—having me book you was An Example."

The capitalized inflection with which she imbued the last two words made him smile for a brief moment before he caught himself.

"If I'd wanted you to call anyone on my behalf, O'Hara, I would've asked."

"Bull."

He blinked at the sound of the word echoing around the cell block, in stereo, followed by identical eye rolls.

"A) Carlton, you don't ask, _ever_, and B) you didn't have to." Predictably, O'Hara rolled her eyes, but unlike so many of the eye rolls that she'd directed his way in the past couple of years, this one was... kind. With the familiar, gentle exasperated tolerance that had colored so many of their exchanges in the past. When she knew him. Back when things were… good.

"For God's sake, you looked at that picture of Karen on your phone so often before you handed it over, I'm shocked you didn't manage to conjure her simply from the power of your own thoughts."

"I—" Heat rose, fast and scorching from his chest up over his face, the neck of the plain white t-shirt he wore beneath his blue uniform shirt feeling as if it was strangling him. He couldn't look at O'Hara. He would _not_ look at Karen. The polished toes of his uniform shoes would be acceptable, oh yes, they would.

Deep in reflective contemplation of black, quality leather, he heard a soft, "A moment, Juliet?"

"Take several," his former partner said. "We've got time before we have to head to court."

"Thanks."

O'Hara's footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the faint squeak and click of the heavy door swinging shut and still he couldn't bring himself to look up.

"Oh, Carlton." Slender, pale fingers curled around the bars, just within his line of sight.

"I'm sorry," he said miserably.

"Why?"

"Last thing I'd ever want to do is make you feel uncomfortable."

"I'm not the one who feels uncomfortable."

The faint note of hurt in her voice finally prompted him to look up and meet her gaze. "I am not uncomfortable—not about us," he said, his voice low, but fierce. Almost of their own volition, his hands rose to curl around hers on the bars, something tight in his gut loosening at the feel of her skin, smooth and cool, against his. "Never us."

"So what is it? You know she already knows." A thread of humor crept into her voice, matching the light in her eyes. "And you know I know."

"Yeah, well—no one but us needs to know… how much."

"Oh." Her fingers shifted restlessly beneath his as her eyes widened, the brown glowing with the rich amber light that left him cursing the fortitude he'd exhibited in going through with his plan _today_, dammit.

Her hands shifted further, turning so her fingers could play along his, her touch light yet wildly erotic. Her voice very soft, she said, "Me, too, baby."

He could feel it. Dear God, he could _feel_ her voice skimming across his skin, intimate and as warm as the light in her eyes. An instant later, her touch was gone, leaving him bereft, only to be replaced by the feel of her in his arms, mouth against his, hot and seeking and everything he'd been dreaming of since the moment their lips first brushed against each other less than a week earlier.

Longer than that, if he was absolutely, completely honest with himself.

Her tongue stroked against his with fiery intent, insistent and demanding and yes, even a little bit angry.

Coming up for air, he gasped, "How—"

"O'Hara gave me the key," she whispered against his mouth, her teeth nibbling his lower lip in a way that left him weak in the knees.

"And you waited this long to use it?"

"I had every intention of leaving your stubborn ass locked up."

Oh yeah, definite anger, her fingers curling into his shoulders hard enough he could feel her nails digging into his skin through the layers of fabric that separated them. At the same time, however, she held him close, her body molded tightly to his, as if afraid to let him go, lest he commit some other act of massive stupidity.

"What changed your mind?" he murmured against the elegant line of her throat.

"Apparently, I'm helpless before those big, blue eyes." She gasped as he nipped at the notch at the base of her throat, his teeth catching on the single strand of pearls she wore and tugging her closer still. "Especially when you look at me with that expression that so clearly conveys you know you've been an idiot, but you'd do whatever idiotic thing you've done a thousand times over if you think you're right."

He felt the muscles of her throat work as she swallowed. "Why, Carlton?"

Reluctantly—because oh, God, did she feel wonderful and perfect in his arms, and he never, ever wanted to let her go—he straightened. And oh, God, was she glorious,, skin flushed and lightly damp, her sensible, ladylike pearls almost, but not quite, obscuring the faint red mark his teeth had left behind at the base of her throat. Her hair, her eyes, her skin—Karen practically glowed standing before him in the muted light coming from the cell's single window and Carlton knew he'd die before allowing anyone to ever hurt her as badly as she been hurt in the very recent past. Which only strengthened his resolve that he'd done the right thing.

The only thing.

"Why didn't you tell me Trout testified at your custody hearing?"

In an instant her beautiful glow disappeared, swallowed by a grayness he hadn't seen in her since the moment he'd pulled her from the crumpled remains of her car. Her arms dropped from his shoulders to wrap around her waist as she visibly shrank, as if trying to disappear into herself.

Oh, the hell she would. He pulled her close once more, desire shoved aside in favor of comfort. Protection. And a deep wish he'd punched Trout a hell of a lot more.

"I was ashamed." Her response, so soft he could barely hear, stunned him into stillness.

"Why on earth would _you_ be ashamed? He's the asshat, here."

"Everything he said, Carlton… it was so awful and the judge just sat there nodding and making notes and… and… believing him. And then he said that based on the information as presented, it was clearly in the best interests of Iris' welfare for her to remain in the more stable environment her father could provide."

"Son of a bitch."

Son of an ever-loving, crap on a cracker, bitch.

If it wasn't for the fact that he was holding Karen close, stroking her back and trying to calm the shudders that wracked her body—if it wasn't for the fact that she came first, last, and always—he'd so be out of this godforsaken cell and up in Trout's office, finishing what he'd started.

Son of a _bitch_.

"He wasn't completely wrong, Carlton."

"Yes he was," he growled, his hands opening and closing in helpless fists against her back.

"He wasn't." With a final shuddering sigh, she leaned back, smoothing her hands along his chest, as if soothing him. "Consciously or not, I took advantage of Richard. I knew he'd be there for Iris whenever the job demanded me. Too often, I let the job take precedence knowing I could count on him."

"That's what being married is about, Karen. Counting on each other without question or hesitation."

"But it wasn't equal, Carlton and somewhere deep inside, I knew that." She stared up at him, a new expression reflected in her deep brown gaze. It took a moment, and what she said next, for him to recognize what it was.

"You won't let that happen to us, will you?" Her hands twisted in the fabric of his uniform shirt, knuckles white with tension. "You'll call me on my crap when necessary?"

Fear.

She was afraid. For him. And them.

"I think," he started slowly, "we've both ridden the relationship roller coaster enough to be aware of all the various twists and turns and drops it can bring."

Her gaze searched his face anxiously. "You think we'll be able to predict the scary parts?"

"Well, every roller coaster is different," he said, choosing his words with as much care as he ever had. "But I think we're both experienced enough and smart enough to recognize the signs they're coming up. Especially so long as we stay together, and hold hands the whole time and can give each other fair warning."

Her teeth worried her lower lip briefly. "So you think we'll make it through intact, then?"

"I think we've got a damned good shot at if even if we hit a few bumps and scary drops along the way."

Gradually, her expression cleared and her hold on his shirt relaxed. "Have I ever told you roller coasters make me scream?" The edges of her full mouth quirked with a slightly evil intent, heat and desire punching him in the gut with visceral force.

"Jesus, baby," he groaned. "Don't _do_ that right before I have to go appear in court." He rolled his eyes at her outright grin before casting a rueful glance down at his wrinkled uniform as he shoved a hand through his hair, attempting to restore some sort of order and knowing it for a lost cause. "Although at this point, it's probably hopeless."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my Negative Nellie."

"What the hell did you just call me?" he called after her as she ducked out of the cell. She reappeared a second later, holding the garment bag he recalled O'Hara hanging on the adjacent cell's bars.

"Negative Nellie. Or perhaps oh ye of little faith is more appropriate," Karen said as she unzipped the bag, revealing one of his suits, dark charcoal with a fine pinstripe, along with a pale blue dress shirt and one of his favorite ties, an abstract patterned silk in shades of blues and purples. He watched as Karen hung the bag and removed his best pair of dress shoes, socks, and even his toiletries kit, that she thrust in his hands. Wonderingly, he opened it and perused the contents—brush, hair gel to tame the infernal cowlicks that were the bane of his existence, deodorant, even his shaving cream and razor.

"You, my love, are going to look every inch the professional you are when you appear before the bench and convince the judge you were perfectly justified in hauling off and clocking that insufferable gasbag."

His head jerked up. "What did you just call me?" he repeated, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

She smiled and stepped close, taking the toiletry bag from him and setting it on the cot before raising her hands to frame his face. "My love?" she said softly, smiling up at him in a way he never would have imagined ever seeing Karen smile at him. At _him_.

"I thought we already determined it wasn't a secret. At least not between us." Despite the surety of her words, a flicker of uncertainty dimmed the light in her remarkable eyes, prompting him to take her face in his hands.

"No, it's not… it's absolutely not. But the words, Karen—" His heart was damn near pounding a hole through his chest. "Dammit, this is not where I ever envisioned telling you I love you."

The faint uncertainty fell away, replaced by an openness and a sheer beauty and… a _love_, that stole his breath. Karen loved him. He had no doubt she was still mad at him. He had no doubt it would be far from the last time she was ever mad at him. But she loved him and was standing by him and was holding tight to his hand as they went barreling through the first twists and turns of their personal roller coaster.

"I love you, too," she said softly, her thumbs caressing his cheeks as her other fingers lightly teased his neck. "So why don't we do what's necessary to get you the hell out of here—"

She dropped her hands and stepped toward the cell door, pausing to glance over her shoulder. "And then, Carlton, you can take me home and give me the tonight you promised."

His hand shot out, stilling her progress. At the shake of his head, her brows drew together.

"No, Karen. As soon as we get out of here, I'm taking you home and giving you always."


	13. In Ways Most Unexpected

In Ways Most Unexpected

**AN: **Consider this chapter a _whole_ lot of wishful thinking.

* * *

"Stop fidgeting."

Karen smiled faintly as Carlton froze, then slowly turned in his chair to face her, hand still hovering near his collar and the impeccably knotted tie she'd straightened for him only moments before—just before entering the courtroom.

"I'm not fidgeting," he muttered. But the faint red streaking along his cheeks and at the tips of his ears gave lie to the typically mulish retort.

"Of course you're not," she murmured softly, wishing she could grasp his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. But they were in the courtroom where he was already seated at the defendant's table with his union-appointed counsel while she sat directly behind him in the visitor's gallery, separated by the bar. It would raise enough of an eyebrow that she was even there, but she didn't give a damn. Their personal relationship aside, she'd been his boss for nearly eight years. That alone was reason enough to support her presence, especially with O'Hara seated beside her.

Not that anyone would be around to care. It was merely a simple arraignment. The charges would be read, Carlton would enter a plea, and bail would be set.

Screw it.

Leaning forward, she gently stroked her hand along the side of his head before lowering it to take his hand. His eyes widened briefly before he smiled and squeezed her hand in return. Releasing a deep breath, he gave her hand a final squeeze before turning to face the bench just as the doors behind them swung open. Karen could have _sworn_ she felt a chill sweep through the room as Trout strode down the center aisle and took his place at the prosecution's table. Alone save for his ever-present egg timer that he placed with great care and precision at the front corner of the table.

Lord, but she wanted to smack the arrogant asshat.

As he turned to survey the room she felt her anger shift to a feeling that could only be described as a warm fuzzy.

"You weren't kidding," she murmured to Juliet as she took stock of the vivid shades of blue-black and purple ringing what was visible of the pale watery blue of his left eye through the puffiness.

"He refused any medical care," Juliet murmured back. "No doubt wanted it to look as bad as possible before the judge."

"Asshat."

As his counsel hissed "_Shhh—"_ Karen leaned forward slightly and murmured, "Settle down, Carlton."

"He is."

"This is not a secret. To anyone. There's no need provide him any more ammunition."

"I'm screwed as it is, Karen."

"You don't know that," Juliet said softly, yet so firmly, both Karen and Carlton turned to stare.

In response, she merely smiled and inclined her head in the direction of the door to the judges' chambers which was opening.

"All rise! The Honorable Judge Charles Farley presiding."

Karen had more than passing familiarity with Chuck Farley; a spare, lean man in his late fifties, he'd ascended to the bench nearly twenty years earlier after a stellar career as a D.A. In the past she'd found him to be fair and surprisingly willing to think outside the box, at the same time however, he was also known as extremely no-nonsense, a stickler for propriety, the rules of order, and following the letter of the law. The kind of judge a cop like Carlton could respect and vice-versa. In their current situation, however…

Karen could only pray that Farley's outside-the-box mentality prevailed today, but honestly, she wasn't holding out much hope and neither was Carlton's counsel. Even though technically, Carlton hit Trout as a public citizen, the fact that he'd still been in uniform and his retirement papers had been fast-tracked could be read as suggesting forethought and premeditation. Undoubtedly, Trout would try to spin it that way.

Then there was the not-insignificant fact that Carlton had assaulted an officer of the law—whether it was within the context of a private citizen or as an officer striking a superior, most judges didn't tend to look too favorably on a cop being on the receiving end of an assault.

She couldn't blame Carlton for thinking he was screwed.

Judge Farley paused for a moment and surveyed the room and the players, clearly making assessments and taking note of each individual. Karen felt his sharp hazel gaze rest on her briefly, his impassive expression revealing nothing beyond a brief narrowing of the eyes which she acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. With a nod of his own, he said, "You may be seated," his voice quiet, yet nevertheless ringing with unmistakable authority.

As they resumed their seats and waited for the judge to skim the case file, Trout reached for his timer. As the infernal device began its incessant _tick…tick…tick…_, the sound unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent room, Farley glanced up.

"Mr. Trout, the meaning?"

"That's Chief Trout, Your Honor." He smiled thinly and crossed his arms. "My research says you take on average three minutes, twenty-seven seconds to review a file. I just want to make sure we keep to schedule here. I have appointments."

Karen fought to keep her expression neutral but knew her eyebrows had inched ever so slightly toward her hairline, much in the way O'Hara's had. She could only imagine what Carlton's were doing. Very carefully, she edged her foot forward between the carved spindles of the bar and nudged his ankle gently. Almost immediately, the line of his shoulders relaxed and she could almost envision him schooling his features into the mask of neutral indifference he so often wore.

Judge Farley, his expression still impressively calm, regarded Trout impassively over the tops of his reading glasses. "Mr. Trout," he repeated, stressing the title with an inflection Karen could only interpret as disdain. "Might I remind you this is my courtroom and we'll keep to whatever schedule I see fit. Also, if you have appointments that conflict with today's proceedings, perhaps you shouldn't have pushed so hard for a rapid arraignment."

"It's an open-and-shut case, Your Honor," Trout calmly retorted. "I arranged my schedule accordingly. There's no conflict so long as you keep to pace. And it's Chief Trout."

Even from this distance, Karen could see the judge's nostrils flare as he took a deep breath.

"Technically, it's _Interim_ Chief Trout."

Trout's mouth opened, as if to counter, but before he could so much as take a breath, Farley continued. "And might I remind you, yet again, this is my courtroom, as it has been for the last eighteen years. To put it in parlance you can perhaps better comprehend, this is _my_ domain and in my domain, I can refer to you however I please. For the moment, it remains with a modicum of respect. Let's keep it that way, hm?"

Never once did his voice stray from its even, steady modulation, but the steel in his tone was nevertheless unmistakable and underscored with a thread of something… more. Something Karen couldn't quite put her finger on, but that for the first time, allowed her to feel a glimmer of hope that things could possibly go in their favor. The quick, wide-eyed glance Carlton shot over his shoulder, revealed that he, too, had heard the same and if he was feeling hope…

With a deep breath, Karen relaxed back into her seat. Even Trout's narrow stare, as he obviously witnessed their exchange before sliding his gaze to O'Hara, who sat calmly studying her nails, couldn't unnerve her.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter."

"_Officer_—"

Once more Farley stared over the tops of his glasses. "One more outburst, Mr. Trout, and I'll hold you in contempt of court."

Even from across the courtroom Karen could see Trout's knuckles whitening as he gripped the arms of his chair. "But—"

"Remember what I said about my domain, Mr. Trout? I choose to refer to Detective Lassiter by the rank he's earned through many years of service to this city although—" he glanced back down at the file. "If one truly wishes to be technical, it should be Mr. Lassiter, should it not?"

He directed the last to Carlton, who stood quietly with the erect carriage that was part Academy training, part inborn pride.

"Yes, Your Honor. I submitted my approved retirement papers first thing this morning."

Karen couldn't be sure, but she could have _sworn_ she heard a soft "Pity," from the direction of the bench.

"Moving on, then. It says here you struck Mr. Trout—" he paused, as if waiting and when nothing more came from the direction of Trout's table than a high-pitched wheeze, not unlike the sound of a pressure cooker about to blow, a faint smile turned up the corners of his mouth and he continued. "Unprovoked and with great and deliberate force, enough to cause visible and painful injury. And that moreover, you struck him in the workplace, before the assembled ranks of his subordinates, inflicting great emotional distress."

Juliet muttered, "That would infer he actually _has_ emotions," to which Karen could only subtly roll her eyes in agreement.

"It would appear that under California Penal Code, we're looking at a reasonably straightforward misdemeanor charge of battery on a peace officer. Detective Lassiter, how do you wish to plead?"

Karen's heart beat faster as she watched his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, his stance remaining resolutely straight and tall. He would plead guilty. He'd told her, as he finished getting ready in his cell, there was no question—he would take responsibility for his actions and not try to deflect blame onto anyone else.

She'd been more than a little terrified. Battery on an officer of the law could conceivably carry with it up to three years in a state prison if the offense was determined serious enough to be deemed a felony. That Carlton was tough enough to withstand prison wasn't in question—but he was a cop of many years and more than a little notoriety who'd put a lot of guys in the pen. He would not be safe. Not for a second. And that frightened her beyond all measure.

The fact that Chuck Farley had determined Carlton's offense as a misdemeanor was only slightly less terrifying. It could still bring with it jail time, albeit in the county jail—also a less than ideal place for Carlton if he were found guilty. Which would be up to a jury to determine.

Yeah. More than a little terrified. More than a little angry and heartsick that he'd put himself in this position on her behalf. But so damned proud of him, too.

And loving him more with each passing second. The thought that they might be separated even before they'd had a chance to be together—to see what _they_ were like together—was the most terrifying thing of all. But she would be there for him—no matter what.

The irony that this was mimicking the genesis of his relationship with Marlowe was not lost on her.

"Your Honor—"

As Carlton began to speak, the doors at the back of the courtroom opened. Turning in her chair, Karen's jaw dropped as she watched a steady stream of, well… _everyone_. Quietly and respectfully, what appeared to be the entirety of the Santa Barbara Police Force—Miller, Dobson, the rest of the detectives, the uniform cops, hell, even the janitors and civilian staff and a plainclothes-clad Buzz McNab, all led by Patricia Allen, resplendent in her dress blues and a truly fantastic pair of shoulder-skimming dream catcher earrings—entered the courtroom and filed into the seats on Carlton's side of the gallery. Even when those seats ran out, the numbers that continued to pour into the room chose to stand against the walls and along the perimeter, so long as they did not cross the invisible boundary separating the defendant's side from the prosecuting side which remained as barren as a desert but for Trout and his infernal egg-timer, resting forlornly at the edge of the table, as if desperate to leap to its death.

Trout observed the silent procession with crossed arms and a glint in his one good eye that suggested everyone was _so_ in for it once this was over, his body language practically screaming his absolute surety that it would absolutely be in his favor. He maintained this stance, the only sign of his growing ire the progressive reddening of his face, until one elderly woman, tiny and impeccably turned out in a perfectly starched cotton dress, hat, and gloves, made her way up the center aisle to the row where Karen and Juliet sat, and where Patricia Allen waited to guide her into an empty seat.

"_Mom_!" Trout burst out, arms dropping helplessly to his sides as he looked aghast from the older woman to the vast emptiness of the gallery behind him.

"Harris," she replied calmly, daintily slipping her gloves off, one finger at a time. "You're looking decidedly worse for wear, dear."

Karen bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She could _not_ look at Carlton, or else she'd lose it completely. Except she couldn't _not_ look at him. And when she did, found the urge to laugh dissipate at the utterly stunned look clearly evident in those expressive blue eyes. She knew what he was thinking—that after years of dealing with him, with his bad temper and exacting personality and apparent lack of gratitude, he'd expect these people, of _all_ people, to be the first to line up to see him brought down. Instead, here they were, all on his side—literally and metaphorically.

"I'd call for order, except this isn't exactly disorderly."

Karen shifted her attention back to Judge Farley, surveying his courtroom from the bench with an expression that appeared to be equal parts amused and bemused.

"Someone better tell me what the hell is going on and it better be good."

The collected gallery turned to face Trout, who was now visibly seething, fists clenched.

"Mr. Trout, due to the highly unusual nature of what appears to be occurring, I'll allow you one last freebie. But consider this your final warning." The judge turned back to the assemblage. "He does however, raise a good question. Would someone care to enlighten me as to what, exactly, is going on here?"

To Karen's shock, Juliet stood. "Your Honor, if I may?"

Judge Farley studied her briefly before he nodded and said, "Detective O'Hara, yes?"

"Yes sir."

He indicated she should approach. As she crossed the bar and approached the bench, Carlton turned once more, his gaze locking with Karen's, clear bewilderment written across his features. She shrugged, as much in the dark as he and crowd be damned, leaned forward to take his hand once more, holding it tight as Juliet began to speak.

"Your Honor, these people are here and willing to testify as to Detective Lassiter's character and the fact that we—" with a wave of her arm, she indicated the entirety of the group assembled, "believe that his assault on Interim Chief Trout was not completely unprovoked."

Judge Farley's brows rose. "Oh?"

"No, sir. Ever since he arrived in Santa Barbara at Mayor Swaggerty's behest, ostensibly to consult and provide an assessment on the department on the basis of our collective performance, he has behaved, in a word, capriciously. Based on nothing more than snap judgments and incomplete evidence, he's made hasty decisions—suspending the current chief of police, demoting a long-standing detective with a tremendous arrest record and numerous citations and commendations for service to a patrol beat, and outright firing a long-term and dedicated officer without warning to name but a few. Basically, he's enacted his own form of outlaw justice and martial law dictated by little more than a timer and whichever way the wind happens to be blowing to the detriment of the entire department and if you'll forgive my saying so, Your Honor, we feel the city, as a whole. Detective Lassiter's actions could actually be seen as a defense of the city he's worked so hard for so long to protect. At least that's how the department he's been an integral part of for so many years sees it."

O'Hara was pale, but her voice was steady. Karen _was_ mildly surprised that she neglected to mention the firing of Psych—come to think of it, she was mildly surprised, based on a second glance back over the individuals gathered, to not see Henry or Shawn, although she did spot Guster, clad in a suit and tie, leaning against the wall in the back. With a faint smile and a raised eyebrow, he held up his phone. With her free hand, she fished in her purse for her own phone, glowing with a text alert.

_Henry wanted to be here, but Juliet had him take Shawn out on his boat. Figured it was the safest way to ensure he couldn't crash. He wants Lassie to know, though, he's behind him 100%. And so's Shawn, in his own Shawn sort of way. Which is why it was better he not be here._

Once again, Karen found herself stifling a laugh. Discreetly, she angled the phone so Carlton could read the message, her heart beating faster at the combination of relief and laughter that brightened his eyes to a brilliant shade of blue. He might not have a damned clue what the hell was going on, but it was clear now, whatever happened, he had allies.

Most importantly, whatever happened, he had his partner back.

Or perhaps more accurately, his partner had _his_ back.

"Looking to join your former partner in uniform or perhaps becoming a duo with McNab in plying your trade around a pole and to a throbbing bass beat, O'Hara? Because I guarantee your days as a detective are over."

A low murmur rose from the crowd like a wave, culminating in a sharp, "Oh, Harris, for heaven's sake, sit down and shut up."

Silence fell, as Harris gaped at his mother, who was standing and fixing her wayward son with a steely glare. Predictably, he tried to glare back, but being limited to only one eye lessened the impact considerably. In fact…

"He kind of looks like Popeye," she whispered to Carlton, who masked a laugh behind a cough.

"Behave," he whispered from behind his hand, while still keeping his face admirably neutral.

"Only until tonight," she whispered back, more certain than ever that things were looking up and in a matter of hours, she would be alone with this man and doing things that most assuredly did _not_ fall under the category of "behaving."

Three sharp raps from Judge Farley's gavel immediately silenced the murmurs and snickering.

"Um… Mrs. Trout, is it?"

"Yes."

"While I appreciate your assistance I think I can take it from here." Judge Farley's expression remained judicially grave, but the glint in his hazel eyes betrayed his humor. "If you wouldn't mind resuming your seat?"

"Certainly." With a gracious nod and a final glare for her son, Mrs. Trout crossed the aisle and sat down with a ladylike demureness that nevertheless seemed to suggest she was prepared to dive right back across the aisle and take her son down in a headlock.

"As for you—" Judge Farley removed his glasses and fixed Trout with a glare completely devoid of the humor that had lurked there seconds earlier. "I believe I gave you more than fair warning as to what would happen if you erupted in another unwarranted outburst. You may now consider yourself in contempt of this court."

"But—" Trout's protest was immediately silenced by a sharp rap of Farley's gavel.

"I'd proceed with caution if I were you, Mr. Trout. The water's already deep—how deep is entirely dependent on your next actions."

Trout sneered. "You're _insane_."

Karen caught her breath as Carlton's grip tightened around her hand. Surprisingly, however, Farley merely leaned back in his chair, a grin playing about his mouth that put Karen in mind of a cat toying with a mouse.

"My wife would likely agree with you—for altogether different reasons, mind—but the fact remains, this is _my_ courtroom in _my_ city while despite your self-appointed title, _you_ are not even an official resident of Santa Barbara." He leaned forward, the grin winking in and out, much like the Cheshire cat's.

"But let's set that aside in favor of the more relevant information, shall we?" Slipping his glasses back on, he picked up another, much thicker, file that had been resting out of sight on the bench. He peered over the tops of his glasses. "You might want to resume your seat. This is going to take a while."

Trout muttered something unintelligible, but took his seat without further incident.

Farley turned to Juliet, still standing before the podium. "You may take your seat, too, Detective, except—"

Juliet paused, her hand resting on the bar's rail. "Yes, Your Honor?"

"Am I to understand that the entirety of the Santa Barbara Police Department is currently jammed into approximately one half of my courtroom?"

She briefly glanced over her shoulder. "Well, the ones who could fit. The rest of the department is out in the hall."

"And who, exactly, is manning the streets of our fair city?"

Juliet flushed slightly, but held her ground. "As of this moment, no one, Your Honor."

"So then… would I be correct in assuming that the department is essentially on strike?"

"Um… yes, sir."

"That vein keeps throbbing like that, Trout's liable to stroke out right in his chair," Karen murmured.

"We should only be so lucky," Carlton shot back under his breath, prompting Karen to squeeze his hand.

"Behave," she whispered.

"Only until tonight," he retorted with a smile and a wicked gleam in his eyes that made his intentions perfectly clear and left her feeling immediately flushed and squirming in her seat like a fidgety schoolgirl. With another smile and heated glance, he released her hand and turned back toward the bench.

Damn him and damn his wicked, sexy, utterly entrancing blue eyes.

Not to mention, that smile.

She couldn't help but wonder how many people might have noticed their little exchange, and just as quickly decided she didn't give a damn.

"Thank you, Detective."

As Juliet resumed her seat beside Karen, Judge Farley addressed Trout again.

"See, here's the thing, Mr. Trout. When I saw your name appear on my docket, I conducted a bit of my own research, especially since your name has been coming up quite a bit around the judges' watercooler over the last six months."

At that, Trout straightened and to Karen's shock, actually _preened_. His posture did not go overlooked by Judge Farley, who added, "I wouldn't be so quick to assume it was positive."

Once again Karen found herself nudging Carlton's ankle with her foot—this time to still the shaking that she knew was him suppressing a snort of laughter. Not that she was faring a whole lot better herself at the honest bewilderment crossing Trout's face.

And once again the image of a cat toying with a particularly hapless mouse came to mind as the judge once again consulted his files, although she had the distinct impression he had the most relevant information already stored in what was clearly a very impressive brain.

"In the last six months the Santa Barbara justice system has been flooded with a heavy increase of petty crime cases—"

Once again, Trout straightened. Karen sighed. He _so _didn't get it. She knew, based on prior conversations with Carlton, what was likely coming next.

"While at the same time, the number of major crimes brought before the courts has decreased dramatically."

Here, Judge Farley paused and sent a pointed look in Trout's direction to which the de facto chief responded with an acerbic, "Oh, is it my turn now?"

_So_ did not get it. But the judge merely smiled and nodded.

"The uptick in petty crime arrests means more criminals are off the streets, Moreover, there's an increased revenue stream for the city with the payment of fines, both outstanding and those assessed at the time of the crime committed. Additionally, officers are working far more regular hours and not wasting time—much of it in the form of overtime—running down implausible leads."

"I see." Judge Farley nodded as if this was all very reasonable. "And has it not occurred to you that this marked increase in petty crime cases brought before the courts also brings with it increased costs to the city? Costs that far outweigh the increased revenue stream and the hours not, quote/unquote _wasted_ on overtime?"

"I—"

"Moreover, has it not occurred to you that unpaid parking tickets, annoying as they are, perhaps pale in contrast to getting murderers or drug lords off the street?"

"But—" Trout spluttered, but never stood a chance, now that Farley was on a roll.

"Mr. Trout, in the six months you've been here, it would appear that the efforts of the city's best detectives—officers who before your arrival dedicated countless hours, both on the clock and off, to chasing down the worst humanity has to offer—have been shunted aside in favor of busting jaywalkers. During any part of your assessment did you not come across the fact that in the past ten years, our force ranked higher than any other county's including those in Alameda, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, in felony arrests and convictions, including breaking some cases that even the FBI and Interpol couldn't crack?"

He leaned forward and gestured at the gallery with his gavel.

"As far as I can tell, you have taken a fine police force and decimated it solely in the interests of a misguided sense of power and your own overinflated sense of ego. Right now, the streets of Santa Barbara go unprotected and the blame for that can be laid squarely at your feet and no one else's."

Taking a deep breath he leaned back in his chair.

"Frankly, I'm surprised it took six months for someone to punch your lights out."

That was it. As if as one, the entire courtroom, save for one highly disgruntled Interim Chief, burst into laughter.

With another sharp rap of his gavel, Judge Farley restored order and addressed Carlton.

"Detective—"

As Carlton stood once more, Karen's heart rose to her throat. This was it. For better or worse. But instead of asking once more to declare his plea, Judge Farley instead said, "I'm dismissing all charges." A relief so powerful it left Karen fighting a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her and left the judge's next words sounding as if they were be fed through a filter, tinny and somewhat surreal.

"Oh, and Mr. Trout?" He waited for Trout's slightly dazed expression to fix itself on him. "If you're considering pursuing this as a civil case, I suggest you think it over very, _very_ carefully. I'm far from the only judge who's unhappy about the recent developments around here. The likelihood you'll find someone sympathetic to your plight is, shall we say, minimal. And as far as your status as Interim Chief, expect to be hearing from the mayor at some point today. If I were you, I'd use the time until you hear from him to pack your things."

With a final rap of his gavel he pronounced, "Case dismissed."


	14. Options, Decisions, & the Easiest Choice

**Options, Decisions, & the Easiest Choice of All**

* * *

"Are you absolutely certain you won't reconsider?"

"Yes, I'm absolutely certain. And you really need to quit asking that."

Carlton smiled down at Karen and stroked her hair back from her face. They were on her—their?—sofa, the one he'd helped her choose at any rate, with him slouched comfortably in the corner while she lay stretched out with her head in his lap, idly watching the late afternoon sun draw lazy patterns across the wood floors and along the walls. After Judge Farley had dismissed the case and Trout had been taken away to be booked on the contempt charges—spluttering the entire way in a manner in which Carlton had found great joy—he'd expected they'd make a break for her—their?—home so they could _finally_ give themselves over to the desire and tension that had been hovering at near-painful levels. Instead they'd found themselves trapped, dammit—surrounded by a crowd overflowing with… with… goodwill, for God's sake, and the sort of compliments and well wishes he'd rarely ever experienced. Especially from coworkers. After several minutes, the bailiffs had moved to clear the courtroom, and O'Hara and Allen had taken charge, ordering the troops that were supposed to be on duty back to work, allowing him to mouth a desperate _finally_ to an equally desperate-looking Karen. Which was, of course, when everyone else who didn't have anything better to do had retired to O'Malley's, dragging him and Karen along for a congratulatory round—or three—of drinks. After all, this was an event that _demanded_ celebration, by God.

Okay, fine, he'd grant them that, but forgive him if he'd kind of envisioned his celebration being of a bit more… private nature. To that end, he'd tried to beg off, _politely_, even, wanting nothing more than to go home with Karen and shut the rest of the world away as they began the next chapter of their lives together, but the hordes were having none of it, leaving him fervently wishing he had his weapon.

It was then she'd whispered a soft, seductive _"patience,_" in his ear—an entreaty that had served to immediately settle him.

Reassuring with that one whispered word that all the time in the world was now theirs.

It was remarkable how she did that, really. He'd stood there, drink in hand, and smiled and accepted handshakes and backslaps and even an incredibly enthusiastic hug from Allen with a rare good grace, and felt remarkably at peace. Only the memory of the last time he'd experienced such unbridled well wishes had shaken his newfound calm with a sharp pang. An instant later, however, a deep brown glance had served to right his world and return to him the sense of serenity only she seemed to instill. Even from across the room, he could feel her presence, supported by her smile or her gaze, everything about her warm and loving and reassuring him that she was right there. That she would _always_ be there.

Carlton knew he would always regret hurting Marlowe—that he'd live the rest of his life with a certain measure of guilt—but he couldn't, in all honesty, regret that relationship's dissolution.

How could he?

How could he regret _anything_ that had led him to this moment, with this woman, lying with her head in his lap, in the home they had created?

Yeah. He breathed deeply of the fresh sunshine and citrus-scented air, his gaze taking in all the changes they'd made. Together. Admittedly, it had been without intent and God knows, it had snuck up on both of them, but this small house had definitely become home. _Their_ home. The acknowledgment of which only strengthened his resolve.

"I've made up my mind, Karen." He traced the elegant lines of her face. "And I can't honestly envision any scenario in which I'll be changing it."

She nuzzled her face against his hand before settling her head more comfortably in his lap. "But it was what you wanted for so long."

"True." He glanced around again, seeing everything as if without blinders for the first time before looking down at her again. Taking in each lovely, _loving_ feature and knowing _this_ was what he really wanted. "But for all the wrong reasons. I wanted it because it was the next step—because it's what was expected. I wanted the prestige of it—the _idea_ of it. The reality of it would've been a different thing altogether. I would've hated it."

"I loved it." She sighed, a wistful sound and his heart ached at the longing in her voice. "Even when it was driving me crazy, I loved it."

"I know, sweetheart. And you were brilliant at it."

She tilted her head far enough back to meet his gaze. "You would be, too."

"Oh, please." A sharp snort escaped just as she poked a finger into his ribs. "Stop that," he rebuked, wrapping his hand around hers. "You know it's true. I wouldn't have had the patience for the everyday minutiae of running the department. And as for the politics—"

She sighed again, underscored by an unintelligible grumble that he nevertheless easily translated.

"You know I'm right."

"I know." After a moment she added, "You could still go back though. That option's on the table as well."

Silence fell as he considered her words—again. And came to the same conclusion—again.

"But you're not going to."

"I don't think so." His words emerged slowly, but no less certain for it. Despite the fact that it had only been a few hours, he'd considered it carefully and knew, with absolute certainty, he was making the right decision.

"You'd get to be a detective again, Carlton." She shifted to her side, angling herself to better study him. Not that he was making any effort to hide anything from her. "Be the kind of cop you excel at being."

He resumed playing with her hair, enjoying the silkiness of it against his skin. "It's not what I want anymore."

"You sound awfully certain."

"I am."

"But it's such a huge part of who you are." She lifted her hand to rest on his chest, right over his heart. "If it's because of me—"

"It's not—" His answer was immediate and firm—meant to soothe her worries—but he knew she'd require more. Pausing to regroup, he sifted through all the thoughts and emotions that had flooded him in the wake of Judge Farley's decision and the phone call, shortly thereafter from Mayor Swaggerty offering him the position of Chief, or barring that, at least reinstating him to Head Detective. After a brief flush of victory and a long awaited sense of _At last_, he'd found himself responding, with no real forethought, that while he was honored by and truly appreciated the offer—both of them—he would have to take time to think about it.

Swaggerty had blathered something along the lines of yes, yes, of course he understood—a trying time for all of them, poor judgments had been made, courses needed correcting, _blah, blah, fishcakes_, and certainly, Carlton would have to discuss matters with his wife before making any major decisions.

Carlton hadn't disabused him of the notion.

After all, it was true. Okay, so technically, not the wife Swaggerty was thinking of and okay, technically, not his wife at all—_yet_—but the principle remained the same. Certain as he was, Carlton wouldn't be making any final decisions without first running them past Karen.

Especially given how his ear was still stinging like hell after she'd twisted it, post-court appearance while simultaneously berating him for submitting his retirement papers without saying a _word_ to her.

His extremely reasonable argument that he _had_ brought up possible retirement in passing had held absolutely no water and had in fact, only earned him another painful ear twist.

However, everything from this point on—it was about them and what was best for _them_.

So yeah, he was absolutely certain he was making the right decision, but he'd discuss it with her.

"I swear, Karen, it's not because of you, but it _is_ because of us."

"How so?" Her fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt, drifting up play in the open vee left by his unbuttoned collar, the feel of it more comforting than arousing, despite the desire that was never too far from the surface.

"We've both been cops the entirety of the time we've known each other, so it's not as if it would require adjustment or explanation."

"True," he agreed. "But by the same token, we're both well aware of what the job requires." He released a slow breath. "It demands so damned much, Karen. Demands _everything_. Costs so much." His voice dropped. "I don't want to sacrifice everything to the job anymore."

"But you're so good at it."

"I am." His hand stilled in her hair as he tilted her head back to more fully meet her gaze. "But I don't want it to be the only thing I'm good at."

She stared up at him, eyes turning the rich amber that never failed to warm him from the inside out. "Don't fool yourself, Carlton. There are many, many things you're good at."

He swallowed hard, the knot of desire he'd been living with for longer than he'd realized growing and expanding and spreading from his midsection up through his chest and out to each limb, leaving him feeling simultaneously heavy and weightless.

"Like what?"

Her eyes widened, the expression in them seeming to reach out and embrace him with the same delicate touch as her hand to his face. "You're very good at loving me."

He tightened his hold in her hair, his free arm going around her back to hold her more closely. "I want to be," he said quietly. "Of all the things I've ever wanted to excel at in my life, that is the single most meaningful, important thing." Closing his eyes he confessed, "I don't want to screw that up, Karen. I can't."

Because he knew, it would end him.

"You know when I asked you to call me on my crap?"

"Yeah."

At the brush of her thumb against his mouth, he opened his eyes to find her intently staring up at him. "It goes both ways, baby," she said, her voice soft, yet incredibly fierce. "I'll call you on your crap and I'll hold your hand as we ride the roller coaster."

Calm settled over him, much in the way it had at her whispered _patience _earlier in the day. "You always have." As she cocked her head, he clarified. "Even before… this—" his meaning punctuated by a caress to the smooth skin of her cheek, "you had no fear of calling me on my crap and you always held my hand, even if it was only metaphorically."

Understanding dawning across her features, she nodded. "Part of it was because it was my job," she said slowly, "but a bigger part of it was because I wanted to." Both hands lay flat on his chest. "You were so alone for so long, Carlton. You needed someone and I guess I… wanted to be that someone. In some form."

"I counted on you," he admitted. "I can't tell you how many times I caught myself looking to you for guidance." He grinned down at her. "One look from you was all it took for me to know whether or not I was on the verge of crossing the line."

"And yet," she sighed in mock exasperation, "you still managed to cross the damned line more often than not."

His grin broadened. "I didn't say I heeded it. Just that I crossed it with full awareness of what I was doing."

"Oh, _you_—" Sitting up, she batted at his chest, her blows light and teasing, quickly becoming caresses, at first glancing, then lingering, each one resting against his body an instant longer than the one before, drifting from shoulders to waist. Nimble fingers undid one button, then another, and another, her hands sliding beneath the cotton of his dress shirt to explore, her head lowering to follow their trail. Her lips traced a path along his collarbone to his shoulder, then down to one nipple, then the other, touch and breath an combining into an erotic cocktail that left him squirming beneath her until he cupped her head in his hands and raised it to meet his kiss.

_Finally…_

Apparently, exactly what she'd hoped for as with a swift, decisive move, she straddled his lap and drove her hands through his hair, holding his head steady as her mouth began a slow, thorough, and completely devastating assault on his.

_Finally…_

As her tongue stroked his, all velvet softness and whisky heat, he dropped his hands to her thighs, pushing her elegant suit skirt further out of the way, allowing her more freedom and him more room to play. Her skin was impossibly smooth and soft, the muscles beneath strong as her thighs closed more tightly around his, bringing her even closer and leaving him instinctively surging up against her heat.

"Karen," he whispered into her mouth, her name a benediction. "Karen," he repeated more insistently, putting his hands on her waist and pushing her far enough away to meet her heated brown gaze.

"I love you," he said roughly. "You know that, right? I love you with everything I am."

Her smile was gentle and wrapped around him with the warmth and security of a favorite blanket. "I seem to recall you saying something to that effect earlier."

"Yeah, well, a cell is _still_ a crap place to confess one's deepest emotions."

"Oh, Carlton." Her hands moved to her blouse where she slowly began slipping the pearl-shaped buttons free. "Honey, it doesn't matter. I want you to tell me you love me whenever and wherever you want. However—" With a subtle roll silk fell from her shoulders to land on the floor behind her, leaving her naked from the waist up but for a sheer, cream lace bra that left very little to the imagination.

_Very_ little.

His mouth went dry at the deep pink readily visible behind the delicate lace and the way the bra lifted her breasts, as if beckoning him to come touch and taste. To linger for a while. Like… forever.

"I will admit _some_ places are more convenient than others."

Somehow, he managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth enough to mutter, "Damn straight."

Yet for all his impatience and anxiousness to get this woman in bed and naked and make her part of him, now and always, all he could do was sigh and lower his head, savoring the soft give of her body as he breathed deeply of her. He sighed again as her hands rose to cradle his head and her fingers played through his hair, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp and neck and raising his awareness to almost painful levels.

"I love you, too, Carlton. I love you so much."

Karen's soft voice drifted around him like the wisps of smoke from a candle, making his arms tighten around her waist, his hands splayed across her back as he held on for dear life, desperate to make certain she didn't dissipate and leave him alone in the dark. And as with so much else, she understood without his ever having to say a word, her head lowering protectively over his.

"Shhh, baby—I'm not going anywhere. I'm _never_ going anywhere."

And yet… and yet… she pulled away and then, she stood, leaving him—alone—on the sofa. Without her. His brain scrambled into a mass of confusion and hormones, he did nothing more than stare between his empty, aching lap and where she stood, hand extended. Slowly, she tilted her head in the direction of her—_their_—bedroom, and smiled.

"Not without you."


	15. Finally

**Finally**

**AN:** Shouldn't come as any surprise that we're headed into **M-**territory. Be ye warned going forth.

* * *

As Carlton slowly smiled and took her outstretched hand, Karen found herself breathing easier. Not that there had ever been any doubt, even with the bewildered expression with which he'd faced her moments earlier. No… she simply breathed easier the moment he touched her because she felt… _better_ whenever he touched her. She felt stronger, more… complete, and she didn't give a damn how that might make her sound. She wasn't anyone's pushover and she knew Carlton was well aware of and respected that fact and so long as she knew it and he knew it, the rest of the world could go hang.

They were both strong enough to stand on their own—they were both aware of each other's strengths—it was just together, they were _more_. And she was rapidly becoming addicted to that sense of more.

Silently, she led him to the bedroom where they paused beside the bed. That she'd carefully made Monday morning with fresh sheets before arranging clusters of candles on the bedside tables and dresser. Quiet anticipation blending with the sense of her heart breaking after having to say goodbye to Iris, the intense contradiction of the two emotions leaving her aching with one overwhelming desire—to be in the safety of Carlton's embrace. From the moment she'd fallen out of her wrecked car and into his arms—well before she'd fallen in love with him—he'd represented safety to her. And as days passed, he'd come to represent home.

It wouldn't have mattered where they made love for the first time, but there was a certain sense of symmetry and inevitability that it happen here.

She smiled as his steady blue gaze took in the room and he breathed deep—the entirety of his being giving off a sense of relief, even as the desire rolled off him in waves.

"This isn't the smartest thing in the world, you know."

She followed his glance down toward the small box of matches resting beside the cluster of candles on the nightstand.

"Iris knows better. Besides, I only left them there after—"

His hands stroked from her wrists to her shoulders, stilling the uncontrollable tremors.

"Shh, sweetheart." He drew her close, enveloping her in his warmth. Providing that sense of safety she'd come to rely on. "I know. Even though I can't even begin to imagine how much it hurts, I know how hard this has been for you. And we'll do whatever it takes to fix things. Now that Tr—"

"No." She put her fingers to his lips, stilling the name before it had a chance to fully form. "Don't say it. Not here. Anywhere else in the house we can talk about any and everything but not here. This room is ours and ours alone."

The blue of his eyes deepened and intensified all at once, turning the brilliant, translucent blue she so loved.

"Our sanctuary," he said quietly, his breath a warm caress against her fingertips.

She sighed, grateful he understood and even more grateful at his willingness to embrace her desire for this space. For them. "Exactly."

A slow smile turned up the edges of his mouth, the movement yet another teasing caress. "You know what this means, right?"

"What?"

Moving his head slightly, he pressed a soft kiss to her palm. The combination of warm breath, firm mouth, and the faint scratch of emerging stubble made her gasp, her breasts feeling almost painfully constricted within the confines of her bra.

"It means we can never, ever go to bed angry."

"Good thing the sofa's comfortable then."

His laugh vibrated from her palm to her chest and all points beyond. "Or it just means I have to work that much harder to make up when I do make you mad."

"Mmm…" She rubbed her palm against his cheek, her thumb tracing his smile. "Practice does make perfect, you know."

His lips parted, straight white teeth gently biting down on the pad of her thumb. His voice low, he asked, "Is it a requirement I make you angry, first?"

Her breath coming in rapid, shallow gusts as he nibbled at her thumb once again, she managed a slightly garbled, "Not at all."

"Good." His head lowered, but instead of capturing her mouth with his as she'd expected, he instead bypassed it completely to fasten his lips to the juncture of neck and shoulder. A violent shudder went through her as his mouth trailed along her collarbone, his teeth catching on the pearl necklace she still wore and tugging gently.

"I don't know what it is about this necklace," he murmured against her skin, "but it's been making me crazy all day."

She clutched at his shoulders, scrabbling to push his shirt off and find more of the oh-so-warm skin she'd been exploring on the sofa. "Oh?"

"Mmm… yeah." His mouth trailed up the column of her neck, the tip of his tongue rolling the pearls against her skin. The smoothness of the pearls and the roughness of his stubble, the warmth of his mouth and the coolness of the jewelry, all provided contrasts that left her head spinning and barely able to comprehend his next words.

"I couldn't get the image of you wearing these—" The pearls fell back to her skin, damp from his mouth. "And nothing else out of my head. Not that I'd want to."

And with that, Karen _finally_ understood the meaning of one's knees going watery. Any sense of supporting her own weight completely escaped, leaving her clutching at his arms, blindly meeting his hard kiss halfway. Limp and breathless, she allowed him to guide her to sit on the mattress, whimpering as he drew away.

He stood over her, hair mussed, mouth slightly swollen from her kisses, shirt hanging open to reveal his lean torso, a few red marks already scattered across his chest, and smiled.

"If you take care of the wearing nothing part, I'll take care of these—"

As he picked up the box of matches and struck one, Karen felt a corresponding flare of heat bloom in her midsection and couldn't shed her remaining clothes fast enough. But not the pearls. Those stayed.

By the time he'd finished lighting the last of the candles, she'd even recovered enough to fold the comforter and sheets down to the end of the bed and lay reclined among the pillows, aroused, excited, yet curiously calm and relaxed. And mildly amused.

She and Carlton.

Whoda thunk?

Then he turned, his eyes widening as he took her in, and she ceased thinking at all.

"You're a goddess."

Fresh heat washed over her along with an inexplicable wave of shyness. "I'm just a woman, Carlton." She swallowed as she watched him shrug off his shirt and make quick work of slacks and boxers. "One who happens to be yours."

Unlike the first time she'd made that admission to him, he didn't disagree, merely sighed as he placed a knee on the mattress and one hand on her bare hip, and leaned down to place an exquisitely gentle kiss on her mouth.

"Mine," he murmured against her mouth. "Always."

Karen sighed quietly, her breasts growing achy and heavy with the desire that continued to rise as she felt him breathe it in and swallow, his hand convulsively opening and closing on her hip. Carefully she spread her hands across his chest, thrilling to the contrasting textures of coarse hair, smooth, warm skin and as she stroked them with her thumbs, the pebbled hardness of his nipples. "Mine," she breathed out on another sigh. "Always."

With a groan, he lowered himself fully to the bed, stretching out half-beside, half-over her. Their kiss deepened as they explored, skin-to-skin, hands roaming, legs sliding against each other, lips, teeth, and tongues in turns battling and soothing the stings left behind after a bite or a prolonged bout of sucking.

When Carlton pushed her gently to her back and proceeded to map her body with hands and mouth, she threw her head back and blindly reached for the headboard, muscles tensing as he tormented first one breast, then the other, licking and sucking, and even biting gently in a way that left her seeing stars and desperate for him to do more… and more… and the more she begged, the more he slowed down, at one point merely resting his head between her breasts, his tongue drawing lazy patterns on her skin while his hands—those marvelous, long-fingered hands, did nothing more than stroke her thighs. Knees to hips, over and over, while his tongue continued doing slow, wicked things, leaving warm, wet trails that cooled in the breeze drifting in from the open window and heightened her anticipation even more.

He had her wound so tightly, she barely noticed when he resumed the trail, his tongue first tracing the curves below each breast before progressing down along her abdomen, the light scratching of his beard leaving behind fiery trails of sensation—as if marking his path. At her belly button he paused, the tip of his tongue delicately tracing the edge before dipping in once… then twice… a third time, lingering briefly before a steady stream of air left her shivering and writhing beneath him, muscles tensing even further with anticipation as he slowly worked his way down to his ultimate destination.

Increasingly delirious with lust, Karen experienced a sudden fear he would continue to tease—would maybe even turn her over and repeat his ministrations to her back—not that it wouldn't be every bit as enjoyable and delicious as his deliberate attention to her front, but dammit, she wanted him _so much_ and had been waiting and how could he and…and…

"_Carlton—"_ Her orgasm hit hard and fast, almost from the instant his head nestled itself between her thighs, no warning, no teasing, just his mouth, strong and insistent, where she was hottest and most sensitive and wanted him most.

Her hips surged up, the insides of her thighs tingling from the rasp of his hair against her skin as she sought to draw him closer, hold him tighter.

"God, Carlton," she groaned, prying one hand from the headboard to drop it to his head, holding him close. Lights streaked behind her closed lids, as another orgasm, smaller and sweeter than the first washed over her. The lights turned to the golden glow from the candles as she blinked, desperate to bring him into focus to _see_ him as he loved her.

Her thighs fell open, one foot trailing down his side as his motions slowed and gentled, yet remained deliberate. Fresh heat overtook her as she realized that despite the two orgasms, she was returning right back to the same delicious knife edge of desire where she'd already been hovering for days.

"Carlton," she sighed yet again, utterly incapable of anything more.

His low voice rumbled against her abdomen, yet another shivery layer of sensation. "You _are_ a goddess."

He eased his way up her body, keeping his weight off while still dragging his skin against hers, hair-roughened to smooth, in yet another unexpected caress. Gently, he freed her hand from the headboard and laced their fingers together as he lowered his head for a kiss that somehow managed to be both tender and heated. Easing himself to one side, he hooked the fingers of his free hand in her pearl necklace and gently tugged. He continued rolling to his back, bringing her body to lie over his. Settling herself more securely, she braced her hands on his chest and sat up. Flush with arousal, she gazed down at him, at the iron dark hair stark against the pale blue pillowcase, his normally sharp gaze turned a muted blue with satisfaction even as his body twitched beneath her with unresolved tension.

His smile was slow, almost feral, as if he was stalking her despite his ostensibly submissive position. With an almost torturous slowness, he trailed one graceful long finger from her hip, up between her breasts, to the base of her throat where the pearl necklace rested. Once again, he twisted the strand around one finger while the others teased the skin of her neck, coming to rest where her pulse beat steadily, yet increasingly faster.

"You'll wear these when we get married?"

Her pulse beat even harder, the skin tight and very nearly vibrating wherever she felt her heart beating.

"I'm wearing them now."

His eyes widened, leaving him looking surprisingly vulnerable, despite the tiny lines fanning from their corners.

"Karen," he said, his normally steady voice rising and cracking slightly.

She lowered herself to lie fully over him, her palms sliding from his shoulders, along his biceps, down his forearms to his hands where she laced their fingers tightly together.

"It happens when it happens," she whispered against his ear, the short hair of his sideburns tickling her lips. "But baby, we promised always. As far as I'm concerned, always starts right now." Her tongue teased the rim of his ear, eliciting a shiver from him that vibrated straight through her and sizzled along every nerve ending she possessed, leaving her feeling raw and exposed and wanting him more than ever.

Wanting to make him hers in every way.

Lowering her head just far enough to fasten her lips to his neck, she adjusted her body angle at the same time as she reached between them with one hand, guiding him into her waiting, aching body. She sighed as he rose up into her, meeting the lowering of her body with a surge that belied the patience he'd shown her. His groan and powerful grip on her hips communicated just how very patient he'd been—how very badly he wanted her.

_Now._

Karen groaned as she sat up, feeling his body response to her slightest movement, which in turn prompted a tightening of muscles from her and another shudder from him. Slowly, she rose and fell, his hands on her hips guiding, supporting, from time to time holding her still as he fought for control, his gaze fierce and blazing near-black with passion. For all that she was on top, he was clearly calling the shots as much as she, wanting to make this first time last as long as possible.

Good thing she felt the same way.

They settled into a rhythm, at first slow and steady, punctuated by kisses and whispers as he told her exactly what he wanted to do to her and she responded in kind, prompting a groan or a near-painful surge into her body. Gradually, their pace increased, their bodies meeting with greater force, each jarring thrust making Karen whimper as another orgasm built, deep within.

Without warning, he flipped them, his body driving into hers even harder and faster and still, Karen wanted more… wanted what was lingering just out of reach, even as Carlton reached deeper, held her closer, his hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her again and again in between urgent whispers to let go. To take him with her.

It was the last that did her in—his request that she take him. That they go together.

Thighs tight around his waist, hands curled into sweat-slicked shoulders, she fell.

And as promised, took him with her with a whispered, "Mine… always."


	16. A Good Day

**A Good Day**

**AN: ** Slight **M**-ish territory.

* * *

_Where was she?_

Panic gripped Carlton as he lay in that gray, indistinct moment between sleep and wakefulness—the unsettled feeling that things weren't as they should be. He'd fallen asleep with Karen in his arms, cradled close to his chest and now, she wasn't there. She wasn't lying with her head on his chest or with her back to him, her hands holding his close against her abdomen and it was wrong, dammit and no, he wasn't imagining things and he knew every magical moment of the night before hadn't been some spectacular, Jameson-fueled dream.

He hadn't even had a damned thing to drink. So there.

It had happened. He and Karen. And it had been…

Yeah.

_Wow_.

Very, very _wow_.

Making love to Karen been real and warm and wrapped in every brilliant color and heightened sensation—she'd been too inescapably _his_ for him to have ever imagined it.

They'd made love all through the night, pausing only to change the sheets, raid the fridge, and shower, although the shower hadn't been so much pause as new venue, especially after her confession of envisioning them in the shower in the wake of their first kiss.

The image of them he'd seen reflected back at them in the big mirror opposite her shower was one he'd take with him to the grave and brother, he'd go with a smile on his face. One shapely thigh hooked high around his waist, her lashes, lying long and dark against cheeks flushed deep pink from the shower's heat and her own arousal. Her head rolling against the tumbled marble tiles of the wall, teeth embedded in the full curve of her lower lip. His fingers sinking into the firm flesh of her hips, holding her steady while the muscles of his legs flexed rhythmically as he drove into her again and again.

Also filed under sense memories he'd never forget from that encounter: the sound of wet skin striking wet skin as their bodies met with increasing force; her high-pitched cries and his own voice, lower, but no less desperate as he'd said her name and groaned at the silk-and-velvet feel of her wrapped around him and how it contrasted with the stinging pain of her nails as they dug into his shoulders and scored fiery lines down his back.

It was entirely possible the shower had supplanted the tub as his favorite place to make love in a bathroom. Then again, he hadn't yet had the opportunity to make love in a tub with Karen. Honestly, he suspected so long as it was with her, _anywhere_ would be his favorite place to make love. And considering he fully intended to never again make love to anyone else but her so long as he lived, well then, that left a wealth of possibility as to his favorite place to make love, didn't it?

Post-shower they'd tumbled back into the freshly made bed, exhausted, but still desperately wanting each other—each of them equally unwilling to let the other go. They'd made love one more time, slow, quiet, and even a little silly as tired, overused muscles had given way and she'd slipped right off his body and tumbled off the bed. Alarm had given way to amusement as she stared up at him, giggling helplessly and he'd stared down, entranced at the sight of Karen, giggling, before finally collapsing in his own fit of laughter that only increased as he tried to help her up and failed miserably, his own muscles protesting.

Giving into the inevitable, he'd slid to the floor beside her where he quieted her giggles with kisses and made love to her right there, sweet and gentle, and monumentally grateful for the braided rag rug that protected the wood floors. They might have remained there on the floor, dozing off in a tangle of limbs and satiation, but he'd mustered the last of his strength and managed to get both of them back into bed where, cradling her close to his chest, he'd fallen into the best sleep he'd enjoyed in more than six months.

But now his chest was bare to the morning air, cool, as if mocking him with the absence of her warmth and all he could think was _where was she?_

It was as sleep cleared that he registered the unusual feeling of warmth against his back and the sensation of a hand lightly resting against his bare abdomen below the sheet, while a smooth thigh shifted slightly between his.

As full wakefulness claimed him, he registered more distinct impressions—warm breath gusting gently against the back of his neck, the softness of her breasts cushioned against his back, a bare foot idly rubbing his calf. The longer he lay there and the more he registered, the more he realized how very… _surrounded_ he was by her.

How very… protected.

Protected.

He felt… protected.

There was a first.

Over the entirety of his sexual and romantic relationship history he'd prided himself on not simply being a giving lover, but one who took care of his lovers in all ways. He'd be the first to admit he hadn't always been a prince in terms of aftermath and follow-through, but whether a relationship lasted one night or several years, he'd always taken care of the women who'd shared his bed. From ensuring their total and complete pleasure to making absolutely certain they felt cherished and taken care of in all respects.

That they felt protected.

Unfortunately, the more in love he was, the more that desire to cherish and care for was misinterpreted as oppressive.

Stifling. Smothering.

Overwhelming.

It had gotten to the point that while he'd continued to do his best to physically pleasure and care for the women who shared his bed and maybe his life for a short while, he would otherwise close himself off emotionally.

Seemed safer that way.

And needless to say, he'd never really experienced the feeling of protection returned to him. If asked, he would have scoffed at the idea, never imagining he, of all people, would ever even _want_ protection. But as he lay there, awash in the newness of the feeling and yes, basking in the sheer marvel of being surrounded by Karen, both literally and figuratively, he realized that not only was it maybe something he might want, but that maybe… possibly… it was something he needed. At least, so long as it was in the form of the beautiful woman who held his heart in her hands—protecting it with a ferocity he would never have expected.

"It's too early for the gears to be turning so relentlessly" came the sleepy murmur from behind him, "Especially on so little sleep." Her hand stroked up from his abdomen to his chest, coming to rest right over his heart. "What's got you thinking so hard?"

Fresh arousal coursed through him as she pressed even closer and prompted a renewed stirring between his legs.

"It's not the thinking that's hard." He reached back and stroked her shapely ass, his fingers teasing the shadowy dimple at the base of her spine.

She sighed and stretched, the full length of her body writhing against his. "Your stamina is to be commended, sir."

"As is your sexiness."

She all but purred, the sound a pleasant vibration against his back. "While I'm not in any way against the compliments, _you_ are avoiding my question." She eased back and tugged on his shoulder, urging him to roll over.

Gentle fingers to his temples she quietly asked, "What's going on up in that brilliant, contrary brain, Carlton?"

It should have been easy to tell her what he was thinking. Everything about his relationship with Karen had been remarkably easy. But looking at her—honey blonde hair spread across the pillow, deep brown eyes drowsy and lit with the rich amber beginnings of arousal, yet still sharp and watchful, he hesitated.

Even after everything they'd shared, he was… afraid.

He might not have thought he wanted that sense of protection from anyone, but that was because he'd been doing the job on his own for so long. Even with Marlowe, he'd held a piece of himself back—never fully giving in, never exposing the deepest recesses of his heart. Last time he'd come even remotely close was with Victoria and God knows, that had been a disaster of monumental proportions. A disaster of his own making, really. He'd known it was over, but figured it was only because he hadn't given her enough of himself. So he'd opened himself up to her in a way he never had before and she'd taken a look into his heart and known it wasn't for her.

Carlton hadn't been sure if he could ever recover from that sort of rejection again, so instead he'd shored up his defenses, telling himself that when the time came, he'd _know_. He would be able to open himself up again. Be willing to take that chance because it was the right person.

Except, despite various opportunities to do so—Marlowe, even O'Hara for a brief, dreamlike moment where he imagined he might be falling in love with her and she with him—he'd held back.

Couldn't take the risk.

With Karen, however… he instinctively knew he wouldn't be able to hold back. He didn't _want_ to hold back. He just didn't know if he had it in him to take that final step again—to go all in, despite his intense desire to do just that.

"I love you," he said, much as he had so many times throughout the night, but unlike all those times, he heard something new—the fear, loud and clear. Especially since it was throwing his voice into an octave in which it hadn't resided since freshman year of… oh, hell, high school, at least.

"I love you, too." Her full mouth curved into a gentle smile, tiny, fine lines fanning out from the corners of her remarkable eyes, and in that instant, he knew she heard his fear. And knew she understood his fear.

Carlton also knew, because he knew Karen, she wouldn't let him get away with simple tacit understanding.

He lifted his hands to her face. "You make me feel so damned safe, Karen."

"And that scares you."

Lips pressed tightly together, he nodded.

"Because…" she prodded softly.

"Because—" he started, then stopped, the words, so close, yet feeling as if they were wispy, insubstantial things, hovering just out of reach.

"It's okay." Her fingers continued stroking light circles on his temples, as if to soothe the chaotic jumble that, with the exception of police work, had ruled his everyday existence for the majority of his life.

"It means you own all of me."

Her smile deepened. "You did say you were mine."

He kept his gaze fixed on the delicate jut of her collarbones, on her skin, the cream expanse littered with red marks of varying hues. Marks he'd made. Marks similar to the ones she'd left scattered across his skin. Proof of their mutual possession. "This is different though."

"How so, baby?"

"It means…" He paused and swallowed, then closed his eyes for a brief moment. "It means you're seeing a part of me I've never allowed anyone to see. That you own a part of me I've never given anyone else before."

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but her smile gentled even further, her eyes turning the rich warm amber that seemed to belong to him alone. She cradled his face in her hands—those lovely, warm, so-capable hands—and gazed into his eyes, and God, how she _smiled_.

"You have given me the most remarkable gift, Carlton Lassiter. Several of them, actually—many of which I might not have thought I deserved after all the mistakes I've made—but this—" One thumb ghosted across the surface of his mouth, a tantalizing caress.

"You've given me yourself. All of yourself. And you're trusting I won't abuse that gift. That I won't hurt you."

He sighed with relief. She really did understand. "It's terrifying."

"I know, baby."

"How? How do you know?" How did she know him so damned well? Understand him so much more than anyone ever had before?

Carefully, she took one of his hands in hers and lowered it to her breast. Beneath the expected jolt of desire at the intoxicating feel of cradling her softness in his palm, of feeling her nipple pebble beneath his fingers, he felt something more. He felt the beating of her heart, matching his in speed and intensity.

"I know," she said, easing herself closer, until his hand fell from her breast and left them chest to chest—heartbeat to heartbeat. Her voice very small and soft, she said, "Because it's every damned bit as terrifying for me."

A gift for him. The magnitude of which hit him with the intensity of an anvil and gave him the courage to _finally_ say the words.

"Please—take care of me, Karen."

"Oh, Carlton—" She sighed, the motion bringing her ever closer, her heartbeat falling ever more in sync with his. "It would be my pleasure."

"Forever?"

Her mouth found his, her breath a benediction. "And always."


	17. Six Months Later

**Six Months Later**

* * *

"It would appear that congratulations are in order, Ms.—?" The judge—Shaughnessey, as the bailiff had announced her and that Karen had taken as a good sign, what with the Irish and all—glanced up from the file and directed a questioning glance Karen's way. "Vick? Or will you be going by Lassiter now?"

"Lassiter, Your Honor." Despite the relative newness of having claimed the name as her own for only a month, it rolled off her tongue with the easy sweetness of ice cream. Of course, it _was_ a name she'd been uttering on a near-daily basis for the better part of nine years, but never in this context.

She couldn't deny she really, _really_ liked this context.

The judge nodded then glanced at the court reporter. "Duly noted, then. And congratulations. Both of you."

Karen shot a quick glance over her shoulder to where Carlton sat behind her, resplendent in a dark suit and sober red tie. He smiled, slow and easy, his eyes reflecting the expansive, reassuring blue of the ocean at its calmest. Once, when she'd made the idle observation of how very much his eyes were like the ocean, their changeable shade reflecting his moods from calm and happy to frustrated to outright anger, he'd responded not with a scoff or dismissal, as she might have expected, but by saying it was both their eyes that reflected why they were so perfect for each other—his were water while hers, reflected the earth. She'd responded in a very Carlton-esque way, lamenting the boring sameness of the dirt brown, but he'd shushed her, his own eyes turned the storm gray that signaled a deep annoyance.

He'd snapped that her eyes were _not_ boring nor were they simply "dirt brown." They were rich and deep, with bits of green and gold and amber reflected in them. The colors of a goddess of earth. The perfect complement to water.

A rare poetic moment from this most stoic and pragmatic of men and a compliment she would hold close and treasure for the rest of her life.

"Well, then—let's get on with the matter at hand, shall we?"

Karen tensed, joy and relaxation dissipating and replaced by a cold shiver of fear. An instant later, she felt the warm reassuring weight of Carlton's hand on her shoulder, letting her know that no matter what happened, he was there. He would always be there.

"Ms. Lassiter, it says here you're now teaching?" Once again, the judge glanced up and met Karen's gaze—not unkindly.

"Yes, Your Honor—I'm teaching various police procedure and criminology courses at Allan Hancock College up in Santa Maria."

The judge smiled—again, not at all unkindly or in a manner that suggested suspicion or that there was anything wrong with the unexpected turn Karen's career had taken. "While I'm sure the Santa Barbara Police Department still misses you, I have to admit to deriving a great deal of pleasure from this news. It's reassuring that our next generation of police officers are receiving such stellar guidance. How are you finding it?"

Surprised and mildly flustered by the unexpected compliment, Karen nevertheless answered without hesitation. "Challenging but tremendously fulfilling."

"Not quite the same as police work, though, is it?"

Here, Karen did hesitate, not entirely certain this might not be a loaded question. Finally, she responded with an honest, "No, it's not. But I think it's a good place for me at this time in my career and life."

Again, the judge surprised her with a smile—this one full of knowing and almost a sense of sisterhood. "I felt the same way about leaving active practice to take a seat on the bench. It's the same, but… not. Challenging's a good word for it. And I can't deny it made my family a lot happier."

A happy family. The exact outcome Karen was hoping for. And as much as she appreciated Judge Shaughnessey's commiseration and understanding, she couldn't help but wish the woman would get _on_ with it, already.

"So, you're recently married, in the process of purchasing the home you've been renting for some time, and comfortably settled in a new job with far more stable hours and greater flexibility."

Before Karen could answer, however, a crisp, "Your Honor?" came from Richard's attorney. She glanced past him—entirely too young, too uniformly blond and tan, and wearing his surprisingly well-cut suit with a supercilious air that suggested he'd graduated top of his class and had been recruited accordingly— to Richard, who was emphatically shaking his head.

"Yes, Mr. Yeager?"

After a quick murmured exchange with Richard, who did not appear in the least bit mollified, the little pissant continued. "While on the surface it would appear Ms.… Lassiter's—" he drawled the name out with an oily sidelong glance that was entirely too reminiscent of Shawn Spencer, "situation is far more stable than it was six months ago, there still remain some extenuating circumstances of which we feel the court should be made aware, especially given Your Honor's newness to the case."

Richard's annoyed, "Barry—" was overridden by Judge Shaughnessey's mild "Oh?"

"Yes, ma'am—for example, there's the fact that Ms. Lassiter's new husband, Carlton Lassiter was the SBPD's former Head Detective under her command who was demoted by the then Interim Chief, Harris Trout, whom Mr. Lassiter then subsequently assaulted before leaving the force. Additionally, Mr. Lassiter was, very shortly before becoming involved with the then-Ms. Vick, married—his second marriage, it should be noted—to a former felon in whose arrest and incarceration he played a direct part. Additionally, it should be noted his involvement with the current Ms. Lassiter began while she was still married to Mr. Vick. We feel this provides genuine cause for concern, given his history of past workplace involvements including a former partner as well as an active parole officer. His former wife's parole officer as a matter of fact."

"The first wife or the second?"

Yeager drew up short, pale, perfectly-shaped brows knit together. "Erm… the second. The felon. One…" He glanced down at his legal pad, "Marlowe Viccellio."

Puffing up slightly, Yeager concluded with a triumphant, "We can't help but question the environment—the influence—such a man would provide for the minor in question."

Karen's heart stopped—downright stopped—and she intensely regretted no longer carrying a weapon. And Carlton—oh, dear God, how must Carlton be reacting? It would break his heart if her situation with Iris didn't improve—or God forbid, worsened—simply because of circumstances that had been beyond both their control, but for which he would mercilessly excoriate himself. A quick panicked glance back over her shoulder revealed him to be sitting absolutely still and pale, the smattering of freckles that dotted his broad cheekbones and the bridge of his nose standing out in stark relief. It was his eyes, however, that sent a pang of hurt shooting through her—wide and stricken, all their color leeched out, leaving his normally sharp gaze glassy and unfocused.

Protocol be damned, she reached back and took his icy hand in hers, squeezing until she saw signs of life, the faintest shards of blue returning as he squeezed gently in return.

As she turned back toward the bench, her attention was captured by Richard's apologetic gaze, accompanied by a mouthed _"Sorry."_

She mustered a ghost of a smile, knowing this move hadn't been his idea. His idiot attorney on the other hand… Her gaze slid from her ex-husband to the little pissant who probably still required nap time and once again regretted the loss of her service weapon.

"My, that's a rather complete listing of Mr. Lassiter's faults." Judge Shaughnessey's voice remained mild. "Are you certain you didn't used to work for Harris Trout?"

"I—"

"Sit down, Mr. Yeager."

Yeager sat.

The judge took a moment to riffle through the documents on the bench before pinning Yeager with a friendly stare. _Too_ friendly, Karen thought. Oh, this was gonna be good.

"To address your concerns and those I'm presuming, of your client, let me posit a few questions of my own. For clarification, you understand."

"Okay," Yeager responded hesitantly.

"Are you aware that in his more than twenty year career on the force, Mr. Lassiter had one of the most stunning arrest and conviction records of any officer—not just in the history of the SBPD, but in the State of California—along with a list of commendations too lengthy to mention?"

"Uh…"

"And that the conditions under which he was demoted were, shall we say… suspect?"

"I—"

Shaughnessey held up a finger. "Hold that thought—we'll come back to that item in a moment." With a beatific smile that gave Karen an inexplicably warm, fuzzy feeling, she continued. "Now, as to your concerns with respect to his personal life. Normally, I would agree that on paper, he looks like a bad risk, however—it behooves us, especially in the field we're in, to look beyond the paper to the actual human, no?"

"Uh—"

"No, need to answer, dear." She smiled again, leaning forward slightly. "Especially since it seems I'm far more up to snuff on this case than you are, despite my 'newness' to it. Now—" She paused to take another quick glance down at the files. "According to affidavits voluntarily submitted by Mr. Lassiter to the court and copies of which you should have in your possession, he underwent substantial therapy throughout the course of his first marriage—therapy he voluntarily continued in the years following its eventual dissolution. With respect to the second Mrs. Lassiter, well, you should also have the documentation declaring the lack of _that_ marriage's actual existence, initially due to circumstances over which neither he nor Ms. Viccellio had any control. It's their business and quite honestly, irrelevant to the matter at hand as to why they chose to remain unmarried and go their separate ways, but on a personal note, I both sympathize with how difficult a decision that must have been as well as commend them for their bravery in choosing to not become yet another tragic statistic. And as far as the specifics surrounding his relationships with Ms. Viccellio or his former partner or anyone else, well, we can't always control who we're attracted to, now can we?"

She relaxed back into her chair, eyes narrowed. "Even taking your relative youth into account, can you stand there and honestly claim you've never had a relationship, ever, that might be considered unwise or inappropriate? That maybe you tumbled headlong into, entirely too fast and maybe had cause to second guess or regret afterward? Because if you haven't, then perhaps we should be contacting the Church and asking them to send one of their miracle hunters."

Karen swallowed a laugh and relaxed back in her chair to continue watching what was clearly a virtuoso at work.

"As far as I can tell, everything I've learned about Mr. Lassiter indicates he always, without fail, tries to do the right thing. Which brings us back to his demotion."

Across the way, Yeager sighed, clearly resigned to his defeat, but understanding he would nevertheless still have to suffer through the final, agonizing minutes of the game.

"A demotion that was wholly undeserved and that came at the hands of a man who very nearly decimated the entire force for reasons still known only to himself. A man who, might I add, is currently being held in the acute ward at Crossings Psychiatric Institute with no timetable as to his possible release?"

Judge Shaughnessey steepled her fingers below her chin and regarded the courtroom with a thoughtful expression. "It is this court's belief that Carlton Lassiter could hardly be considered a poor influence and that in fact, the household which he and Ms. Lassiter are creating is likely one that is warm and nurturing and that will contain a valuable element of structure sorely lacking in too many homes these days."

Behind her, Karen heard Carlton's soft, shaky "Thank God," a prayer of thanksgiving she silently echoed.

"So, that's a considerable amount of time spent on the Lassiters. Now, on to you, Mr. Vick. It's my understanding you have a new job as well?"

"Not so much a new job, Your Honor, as a new position within my current company."

"I see. From what I understand, this new position is proving to be a bit demanding."

From her vantage point, Karen could clearly see the dull wash of red that suffused Richard's complexion and couldn't help but wonder what had him so discomfited.

"Yes, ma'am. The workload has increased and the hours are… demanding."

"And what is your current childcare situation?"

"I have a nanny who picks Iris up from school and who's willing to stay and make dinner on nights I'm late."

"Which is…"

Richard's eyes closed. "Too many."

A single eyebrow rose. "Care to be more specific?"

"On average, three nights a week. Recently, it's been more like four." He sighed. "The nights the nanny hasn't been able to stay, I've luckily been able to call Karen who's been extremely understanding and hasn't hesitated to help."

"I see." The judge turned away to take a drink of water and Karen could have sworn she heard a muttered, "Not as easy as you thought it would be, is it?" But maybe that was just Karen's own subconscious, lobbing a shot Richard's way. She wrestled the feelings of "Told you so," into submission, especially since when she'd been in that same situation, she'd had Richard. Now, even though they were no longer together, it was her turn to be there for him—for _Iris_—whenever needed.

"Mr. Vick, have you considered hiring a live-in nanny or perhaps an au pair?"

To Karen's surprise, the color faded from Richard's face and his expression settled into the reasonable lines with which she was so familiar. "I had, Your Honor, but putting aside the difficulty, not to mention the exorbitant expense of hiring a nanny with the sort of experience with which I would feel comfortable and with whom I could trust my child, when I broached the subject with Iris, she was extremely resistant."

Another one of those mild "Ohs?" came from the bench.

Again, to Karen's surprise, Richard smiled. "She asked why spend money to hire a stranger when she could just spend more time with her mother and it wouldn't cost me anything."

Hot tears pricked at the backs of Karen's eyes. Her sweet Iris. She'd not said much beyond expressing disappointment that her father was spending more time at work, "like you used to, Mommy." A statement that had made her heart hurt and strengthened her resolve that regardless whether or not her custody situation ever changed, she would never again hold a job that took precedence in any way over her child.

When the offer to teach at Allan Hancock had come, it had been as if the Universe was applauding her decision and giving her a helping hand. Maybe it wasn't Chief of Police, but it _was_ an opportunity to stay in law enforcement, even if only peripherally, with far more flexible hours and actual vacation time that couldn't be intruded upon. And while she'd already encountered the occasional smartass, know-it-all student, they were no match for her after eight years of Shawn Spencer. A pleasant surprise had come in the form of Mr. Guster showing up as a student when he'd audited one of her criminal psychology classes.

Practical use, he'd confided.

"And how would you feel about that, Mr. Vick?"

"I feel that spending more time with her mother could only be a good thing for Iris, Your Honor."

After a hushed exchange that left Yeager looking irked, but resigned, he stood and said, "Your Honor, my client would like to propose that the current agreement be amended to one where each parent shares joint and equal custody of the minor, the specifics of which are to be mutually agreed upon at their discretion."

"I will confess, having reviewed my predecessor's files on the case, I felt the original decision to be unnecessarily punitive and relied perhaps a bit much on the testimony of a man whose decision-making abilities have recently been called into question." The edges of her mouth twitched briefly "This seems like a far more reasonable compromise and given each party's current circumstances, definitely to your daughter's benefit." Judge Shaughnessey folded her hands on the bench and gazed from Richard to Karen, in turn. "Is this agreeable to both of you?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Karen said, barely able to hear Richard's assent over the thundering of her heart in her ears. She felt dizzy, the world tilting beneath her feet, until a warm, familiar weight settled on her shoulder, anchoring her to the here and now.

"We did it," she murmured, knowing he could hear her.

"_You_ did it, sweetheart." His beloved voice was low, with the tender note he reserved solely for her. "This one's all you."

"No." She couldn't have done it without him. It would have taken her so much longer to find her way had he not been there, catching her from that first moment and holding her steady and secure. "Us."

"Mr. Vick—Ms. Lassiter—I trust you'll be able to satisfactorily work out the details of your new agreement, but should you need further assistance from the court, we'll be more than happy to provide mediation."

After waiting for each of them to nod, including Carlton, whom she included with a pointed glance, she rapped her gavel sharply on the bench. "Court is adjourned."

Karen was still enfolded within Carlton's embrace when she felt a once-familiar presence at her elbow. Easing back, she met Richard's gaze.

"Sorry about Junior, over there. My regular attorney was called away—his third wife is having their second kid."

"Oh, brother. And he's in family law?"

Richard winced. "Yeah. I didn't know it when I hired him, but apparently, he met this wife when he was representing her first husband during _their_ divorce."

"Good Lord—and Junior was giving me grief about _my_ relationships?" Carlton's voice expressed the same outrage Karen was feeling.

"Yeah, I know. Again, I am so sorry about that. It was a total ambush, even to me."

To Karen's relief, Carlton waved it off, obviously not overly perturbed. All things considered, she was insanely lucky—Carlton and Richard's infrequent interactions were always civil, much like hers with Richard, all of them in agreement that Iris came first and no good would come from the adults in her life being ugly and argumentative with each other. Karen knew, when the day came that Richard had a new woman in his life—one who meant to him what Carlton meant to her—she would be able to be welcoming and civil. Provided said woman was good to Iris.

If she wasn't…

Hell, the gloves would come off then. She made a mental note to discuss bail funds with Carlton.

"Look, I need to get back to work," Richard was saying, "but I thought maybe we could get together one night this week and discuss new schedules. All of us," he added with a glance at Carlton. "Since it's going to impact you pretty significantly, too."

Karen glanced up at Carlton, the neatly-trimmed beard he'd cultivated since taking on his new job failing miserably at hiding the pleased flush. Lord, but he was adorable. A designation he would deny vehemently—flushing all the while and looking ever more adorable in the process.

"I'm sure whatever you and Karen decide would be fine," he said, his voice suspiciously gruff, "but yeah—we can do that. Maybe Thursday? You don't teach too late that day," he said to Karen.

"Yeah, that would be a good night. Maybe you could come to the house—bring Iris so you don't have to be at the mercy of a babysitter, and she can play or watch TV while we talk."

"Sounds like a plan. Text me a good time."

"I will." Easing fully from Carlton's arms, she reached up to place a gentle kiss on Richard's cheek. "Take care, Richard."

"You too, Karen." He extended a hand to Carlton. "And I know I don't have to tell you to take care of her or Iris."

Carlton grinned, teeth flashing very white within his salt-and-pepper beard. "Nope."

Richard laughed and shook his head. "I can see why you like him," he said to Karen before turning and walking away.

"I can see why I _love_ you," she murmured, as she turned back into her husband's arms.

He looped his arms around her waist, his hands resting at the base of her spine as he gazed down at her, his eyes back to the full, deep blue of the Pacific on a lazy summer's day. "Well, considering we both took the day off, would you be amenable to my taking you home so you could show me? Maybe add in a practical demonstration?"

She laughed, lighter than she could ever remember feeling and more in love than she could ever have imagined. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**AN: ** I thought this was going to be the last chapter, but there's one wee bit that insists on being written. I know there are only about three of you reading this who might care, but there you have it.


	18. And They All Lived Happily

**And They All Lived Happily…**

* * *

"Mommy!"

Karen turned away from where she'd been chatting with other moms and dads waiting in the carpool line just in time to catch an exuberant Iris up in a hug.

"Hey Sunshine, what's got you so excited?"

Iris drew back, delicate brows drawn down into an eerily familiar expression. "Uh, well, for one, it's Friday."

For a nine-year-old girl, she was developing a disconcerting habit of sounding suspiciously like a forty-five year old man.

Karen wrestled the chuckle that fought to escape down to a grin. "It is at that." Taking Iris' backpack, she put it in the trunk while Iris buckled herself into the backseat. As she waited her turn to ease into the slow-moving carpool exit, she glanced into the rearview mirror. "How do you feel about some ice cream?"

Iris grinned back. "There's never a bad time for ice cream."

Not entirely true. There were _some_ circumstances, like say… ice cream in bed which, while not necessarily _bad_, per se, at the very least required some… advanced planning. Especially if the individual with whom the ice cream was being shared was particularly inventive and enthusiastic. And liked chocolate sauce. A lot.

Not that she needed to be thinking about this while driving. With a highly impressionable minor in the car. Never mind the memories and images were confined to her mind. When it came to Carlton, Karen sometimes feared her desires and intents were scrawled across her forehead in blinking neon—_Shameless Hussy!_—there for all the world to see. Which brought her back to highly impressionable minor.

"A girl after my own heart," she managed after she ruthlessly shoved the image of Carlton kneeling before her, candlelight highlighting the smudge of chocolate streaking across one cheekbone, to the back of her mind. "I have to stop by the library anyway, so I figured we could run past Spoon after."

"Maybe go feed the ducks at the park, too?"

Karen glanced at the dashboard clock. "Sure, why not? We've got plenty of time."

But instead of feeding the ducks at Alice Keck, Karen found herself instead excitedly detoured to the Sunken Gardens behind the courthouse when Iris spotted a wedding ceremony in progress. They paused at the public garden's edge, close enough to have a clear view of the small ceremony, but well away where they were in no way intruding. Settling themselves on the grass, they quietly ate their ice cream and watched as the officiant led the couple through their vows.

Karen smiled as the young dark-haired woman gazed up at her equally young and extremely nervous looking groom. _God_, but they were babies. Then again, on second thought, they probably weren't all that much younger than she and Richard when they got married. So maybe not so much young as innocent. Unseasoned.

"This is a pretty place to get married," Iris observed between licks of her chocolate-coconut double scoop.

"It is."

One of her secrets from her days as the Chief was how often she'd walk the single block from the police department to take her lunch hour out here, watching the ceremonies that took place most days. They were sometimes informal, clearly spur-of-the-moment affairs, sometimes they were a bit more dressed up, and on occasion, usually on Fridays or Saturdays when she worked late and decided to take her dinner break out here as well, she might luck into a full-blown formal affair with aisle runners and rows of chairs and fairytale lights that made the gowns and formalwear appear misty and dreamlike.

But small and casual or large and formal, the one thing all the weddings had in common was the sense of hope. Of love and of new beginnings.

That's why she'd made it such a point to come out here as often as she had. She needed to feel some of that—to absorb it, if only peripherally—in order to offset all the darkness they dealt with on a daily basis. Of course, once her marriage to Richard had started to fail she'd found herself avoiding the gardens, not exactly in the right frame of mind to appreciate the type of love and genuine hope that the weddings represented. Then she'd been suspended and her excuse for being out here on a daily basis had disappeared along with any latent desire that might have remained. In fact, she realized, this was the first time she'd observed a wedding out here in more than eighteen months.

They watched until the moment the newly married couple kissed, the groom resting his hand on his bride's gently burgeoning belly. Karen sent up a silent wish it wasn't the only reason they were getting married, but then again, judging by how they were gazing into each other's eyes as they slowly parted, she had the feeling it wasn't. Good for them.

Ceremony over, she and Iris stood, brushing off the seats of their pants. As she turned to dispose of their trash, she froze, her gaze settling on a lone figure standing on the opposite side of the broad lawn. Clearly also watching the wedding but now her attention was focused on Karen.

It would be easy to pretend she hadn't seen her. Easier still to simply acknowledge her with a nod, then turn and walk away. But that wasn't her style.

Nor was it Marlowe's.

They met halfway, as if casually passing.

Marlowe smiled, as pretty and winsome as ever. It was something Karen had envied the other woman—her ability to seem so fresh and untouched despite all the hardships and bad luck her life had thrown at her. It was no wonder Carlton had fallen for her, once upon a time. He'd so desperately needed that sense of brightness and optimism.

In another life, really. Events that had happened to different people—shadows of who they were now.

"Karen. It's been a long time."

It had. Nearly two years. Since the wedding that really wasn't. And Karen realized she had no idea how much Marlowe knew.

If she knew anything.

"It has," she said. "How are you?"

"Pretty good. Just came from a meeting with my—" she paused, looking down at Iris with a smile the little girl returned, then finished, "friend at the office," with a pointed glance over her shoulder in the direction of the nearby Probation Services building.

Ah. Yes, of course. Not Ursula, though, since Karen had heard chatter the woman had moved to head up the Probation Services offices in El Dorado County, leaving Woody heartbroken until Big Wendy stepped back in to soothe his wounded soul and ego. How, exactly, that had been accomplished Karen had no interest in finding out. Especially given what she'd heard about _those_ two.

It had taken months before she could eat a biscuit.

"How's that going?"

"A couple more months and all accounts should be settled."

"That's great news," Karen said, truly meaning it. Marlowe had fulfilled her debt to society and to her brother. She was a good woman who deserved the opportunity to finally live for herself. "Any plans for after?"

Her smile faded. "Not sure. I've never really had opportunity or reason to plan all that far ahead." Her muted hazel eyes took on a faraway expression. "Maybe I'll travel. I've never really gone anywhere."

"You know, sometimes the best plans are those you don't plan at all."

Marlowe's expression brightened. "I like that." Her gaze dropped. "How's Carlton?" she asked quietly.

Karen followed Marlowe's gaze to her left hand and the rings resting on her third finger but before she could respond, Iris broke in with an excited, "You know my Papa C.?"

A flash of something that might have been pain flashed across Marlowe's face, but was immediately masked by a smile and her voice was kind as she responded, "I used to."

"He's really cool. He taught me how to make pie and ride horses and he's been reading Harry Potter with me."

Karen smothered a laugh as Marlowe's eyebrows shot up. "Harry Potter? That _is_ cool."

Iris beamed. "He complains about all the improbabilities, but I know he secretly likes them."

A small smile twitched at the corners of Marlowe's mouth. "Oh?"

Iris' nod was emphatic in the way only a nine-year-old girl's could be. "He bought copies of all the books for his iPad so he can read them during his breaks at work." She crossed her arms and shook her head mournfully. "He thinks I don't know he's been reading ahead."

"That doesn't seem very fair."

"S'okay." Iris shrugged. "I'm reading ahead, too. Then he reads out loud to me and we both pretend we're hearing it for the first time and everyone's happy. Oh, look, the bride is throwing her bouquet!"

They both watched Iris's face light up as the young bride tossed her bouquet before Marlowe said in a mild voice, "Papa C.? He must love that."

Karen laughed. "He does—except when Shawn shortens it to P.C., which drives him nuts as you might well imagine."

"He still hasn't shot him?"

"He doesn't see him often enough for the impulse to overcome him."

"How about Juliet?"

Karen answered carefully, again, not certain how much Marlowe knew. "We see her fairly regularly. She's pretty good at keeping Shawn and Gus at bay these days." Tossing them in jail after they'd annoyed her one time too many had done wonders to convince them she was serious when she'd warned them to not test her.

Once again Marlowe hit her with a knowing gaze. "And Juliet and Carlton—are they… okay?"

"They're—" Karen thought of how best to answer. "A work in progress. We're seeing her tonight."

Marlowe nodded. "If you get the chance, give her my best."

"I will."

"I'd say to give Carlton my best, too, except…" She wrinkled her nose. "Yeah…maybe best not to."

Karen considered that. "Yeah. Maybe." Although she'd likely tell him. When the time was right. They had no secrets from each other.

"I'm glad he's doing well. He deserves it."

"So do you."

"I know." Marlowe glanced down at Karen's hand once more. "They're beautiful."

Karen rubbed her thumb over the rings, comforted by the now-familiar feel of the interlocking bands.

"Thank you."

"The Claddagh suits you."

She looked down at her hand, her heart skipping a beat as it always did when she contemplated her rings and their meaning. The white gold bands were studded with tiny diamonds that formed a stylized crown and two small arcs that brought to mind a pair of hands formed to cradle a brilliant triangular sapphire. The rough cut of the stone was more evocative of the Claddagh's traditional heart, as opposed to distinctly shaped, but precisely set so one point faced toward her wrist, the meaning clear. Signifying her status as a married woman.

Married to an Irish man—with all his faults and qualities—for better or for worse.

Forever.

"Thank you," she said softly, still staring down at her rings. Even though all the various slings and arrows had been discharged well before she and Carlton had found each other, she still hated that people had gotten hurt. Good people, who didn't deserve it. Including Carlton—and herself.

"It's okay, you know."

Karen studied Marlowe. "Is it? I have to confess, I've wondered."

"You remember how I ran off at the wedding?"

"Vaguely." Not really.

"And how I said maybe all I had needed was some 'me time?'"

"That I do remember." That was right before she'd given her little speech about marriage being hard. But worth it. And very nearly spilled the beans about feelings she hadn't even been aware she'd harbored.

"I think maybe I should have paid closer attention to that instinct."

"Oh, Marlowe, he really did love you." And why did she feel compelled to reassure her husband's ex of this fact? Was she completely _insane_?

"He felt responsible for me. And yeah, loved me—maybe even a lot. But _really_ love me?" Once again her steady gaze flickered toward Karen's hand. "He might have _said_ 'for all eternity' to me," she said softly, "but he _gave_ it to you. And I'm okay with it. I really am. Carlton deserves someone who truly knows him and understands him—" She smiled slightly. "And who'll take care of him in spite of that. Who knows how to take care of him. That's you."

She lifted a shoulder. "It's been you for a long time."

Beneath Marlowe's serene expression Karen glimpsed a flash of greater understanding and knew with a deep, unshakeable certainty, that the other woman had somehow been aware about her and Carlton—even before they had.

But what could she say to that? Nothing, really. So instead, she nodded and called for Iris, spouting the usual pedestrian excuses of it getting late and she still had to stop at the store and traffic, and Marlowe went with it, teasing Iris that she shouldn't read too far ahead of Carlton and requesting yet again, that Karen pass on her best wishes to Juliet and even to Shawn and Gus, even though they both knew she didn't really mean that last.

Left unmentioned but nevertheless hovering between them, was Carlton.

Also left unspoken was the understanding this would likely be the last time they'd see each other and definitely the last time they'd speak.

All that needed saying had been said.

* * *

The heavenly smells of simmering meat greeted Karen as she and Iris entered the house from the garage.

"Hey, I didn't expect you to be home yet."

Carlton greeted her with a light kiss as he took the grocery bags from her hands, then after he'd put them on the breakfast bar and swept Iris up for a swinging hug that left her squealing in delight before she ran off to her room, pulled her into his arms for a more thorough kiss.

A _very_ thorough kiss, his tongue sweeping the inside of her mouth, hot and insistent, with the promise of more. Sucking gently, she savored the sharpness of the beer he must have been drinking before her arrival and further down, the faint bite of his favorite cinnamon gum.

"Mmm…" she murmured against his mouth, enjoying the rough/soft rasp of his beard against her sensitive skin. "I take it you had a good day, then?" She stroked her hands through his still-damp hair, happily breathing in the clean, just-showered smell of him.

He grinned, his teeth biting down and dragging against her lower lip in a way that made her wish they could skip dinner altogether. Maybe breakfast, as well.

With a final lingering kiss he drew back, his eyes a mellow, pleased blue. "Never underestimate the stupidity of criminals—no matter how well-organized they think they are."

"So the operation went well?"

"Never knew what hit 'em."

She smiled at his expression—cocky and arrogant as ever, yet with a new steadiness and calmness about him. If today's planned operation hadn't gone well, he would have been upset, because he still hated criminals getting the best of him almost as much as he hated vegan supporters of Olympia Dukakis, but he wouldn't have let it consume him the way it once would have. These days he was more likely to put his disappointment aside, at least within the confines of their home. Home was for shutting the outside world away—recharging himself in order to fight another day.

Which wasn't to say he didn't talk about his day. To ask Carlton Lassiter to not talk about law enforcement—especially within context of a job he loved so much—was like asking Shawn Spencer to not eat. So yeah, he talked about his day with her, bouncing ideas and theories off her while she listened intently and offered suggestions and ultimately, incorporated elements of the work he did into her curriculum.

It was the perfect balance for them and really, the perfect job for him.

Karen considered the opening of the position of commissioned park ranger for the National Parks Service on par with the appearance of her teaching job—akin to serendipity or the Universe turning a kind eye on them. It was a job tailor-made for Carlton—a position of authority that allowed him to utilize both his gifts as a cop and an outdoorsman to maximum effect and on a federal level, to boot since technically, he was employed by the Department of the Interior. While all park rangers were formally referred to as Ranger regardless of position, he was in actuality a supervisory federal field agent organizing and overseeing the other commissioned LEO Rangers who patrolled the parks, sites, and monuments in the Central Coast District. In addition, his position also required him to work in conjunction with other agencies such as ATF and DEA as well as the various state and local LEOs, his idea of law enforcement nirvana, provided the other officers or agents weren't idiots.

Karen had told him he couldn't have everything.

He was back in a uniform, but like all other uniforms he'd worn, from that as a patrol cop to his suits and ties as a detective, he wore it with a great pride and honor that couldn't even be shaken or marred by Shawn's offhand referral to him as Smoky the Bear.

That had been an unfortunate error.

Unfortunate, unfortunate error.

It had taken the idiot the better part of two days to make his way out of the remote section of Los Padres where Carlton had left him after duping him into a ride to "pick up some fried chicken and sides so we can surprise the girls with a picnic."

When Juliet had protested—somewhat weakly, in all honesty—Carlton had calmly retorted that he'd a) left the gel-head with his cell phone and emergency flares and no, it wasn't his fault the idiot had thought they were high-tech firewood and had attempted to burn them, for which Carlton had issued him a citation, since they were on a burn ban throughout the state and b) he _had_ stopped for the promised chicken before dumping Spencer in the woods, so he hadn't been without rations.

Never mind Shawn's howls that the rations had barely lasted him past the first hour and he'd had to resort to the emergency bags of Skittles and Funyons he kept in the capacious pockets of his cargo pants.

Still—he'd wisely refrained from commenting on Carlton's uniform again.

Personally, Karen thought he looked rather dashing, especially with his full silver-shot beard and hair grown out just long enough to allow the waves room to play, the still-mostly dark color contrasting handsomely with the tan acquired from hours spent outdoors. His skin was peppered with a smattering of freckles that gave him an endearingly boyish air while the light golden hue made his eyes stand out even more than before, startlingly blue and making her weak in the knees.

Of course, Carlton _out_ of a uniform made her rather weak in the knees as well.

But sadly, no time for that before dinner. So she tried to dim the _Shameless Hussy!_ sign down to nightlight levels and forced her attention back to the topic of his day.

"Anyone get hurt?"

The light in his eyes dimmed, but only slightly. "A couple of the DEA guys and one of my guys got caught in some gunfire—mostly superficial and nothing life-threatening," he added quickly at her sharp intake of breath. "Like I said, those scumbags never knew what hit them and now, they're out of commission."

"At least until the next scumbags come along," she sighed. Because if there was anything they could count on, it was that gun runners or human traffickers, or—as in today's case—drug dealers, would keep popping up.

"But that's why we've got you teaching the next generation of kick ass crime fighters." He brushed her hair back from her face, his touch impossibly gentle. "And today's operation went as well as could be expected, so we'll call it a win, okay?"

"Okay." She sighed again, still troubled, but as he pulled her more fully into his embrace, capitulated, winding her arms around his waist and holding him close, because this was home and it was safe and he was safe, and she was with him. She held him close for another moment before drawing back.

"Do I have time to take a shower before dinner?"

"Since I already took mine, yes."

His grin was wide and irrepressible, and had her laughing and shaking her head in mock-exasperation and very real regret.

Following her to the bedroom, he closed the door behind them and went on into the bathroom to start the water running while she shed her clothes and selected clean ones.

"You came home later than I expected," he said mildly as she stepped into the bathroom.

She shivered as he ran a reverent hand down her bare back. Not overtly sexual, just a simple caress because they simply couldn't keep their hands off each other. "Iris and I stopped by the library after school and went to Spoon for ice cream before we went to the store. Then she caught sight of a wedding at the Sunken Gardens, so we stayed long enough to watch."

Definitely not the time to tell him about Marlowe. Not yet. And definitely not here. Their bedroom remained their sanctuary, fiercely guarded against the outside world. Here, it was just the two of them.

"Ah, yeah, once she spotted the wedding you were pretty much doomed, weren't you?"

She smiled. "It was lovely. Small. They were so young."

"We all were, once."

"Couldn't pay me to repeat those years, though."

He nodded. "Me neither. especially since middle age is proving to be _so_ much more interesting." A wicked silvery gleam appeared in his eyes as he repeated his caress, this time to her front, one warm hand briefly cradling one breast than the other, the calloused pads of his fingers teasing her nipples just enough to make her tingle.

Hell, who was she kidding? She tingled when he _looked _at her. Touching her left her vibrating like tuning fork.

At her whimper, he grinned. "I'd better leave you to your shower."

Her hissed "Bastard," was drowned out by his laugh and the slam of the shower door as she stepped in and considered turning it to a cooler temperature. Oh, he'd pay for that later.

Exactly what he was counting on.

Bastard.

By the time she emerged, soothed only slightly by the punishing spray, and dressed in fresh jeans and a t-shirt, their dinner guest was arriving.

"Happy Anniversary," Karen said as she greeted Juliet with a hug.

"This is weird, Karen," the other woman responded as she returned the hug. "An anniversary dinner commemorating my assuming the job that should still have been yours."

"As long as it's not He Who Shall Not Be Named," Carlton grumbled, "it's worth celebrating."

Juliet's lifted one brow. "Still reading Harry Potter?" she asked in an aside to Karen.

"Yep." She took the bottles of wine Juliet offered and just in time, as Iris' door opened and she barreled through and into Juliet's arms with a shouted, "Aunt Jules!"

"Heya, punk, how are you?" Juliet's eyes were bright with affection as were Iris'.

"Great! I got a hundred on my California map test and my teacher said I'm reading so far above my grade level, they might put me in a sixth grade class for English."

"That is _awesome_," Juliet said with the proper admiration and pride befitting an adopted aunt.

"And I taught Papa C. how to play _Plants vs. Zombies._"

"It's insidious," Carlton muttered, which left both Karen and Juliet laughing as they moved into the kitchen where Juliet gathered silverware and napkins while Karen uncorked the wine and Carlton ladled the stout-and-beef stew over buttered egg noodles.

It had been a slow road back for Carlton and Juliet over the past year since his retirement, but under the guise of twice-monthly dinners, instigated by Karen, the former partners had gradually reestablished their friendship. It wasn't the same—without the benefit of the intense daily interaction they'd enjoyed as partners, there was no way it could ever be the same—but personally, Karen thought it a better relationship. One forged as equals rather than as superior and subordinate and based both in shared experiences and common interests of which they had far more than they had nine years earlier. Spencer still drove him nuts but at least Juliet wasn't willfully obtuse to that fact and strove to keep the two men's interactions to a minimum. It helped, too, that Shawn had actually come to the early dinners and predictably, grown bored, especially since Karen had engineered them to take place during times Iris was at her father's leaving Shawn with no one to play with. Karen also, in a stroke of genius or cruelty, depending on who was asked, refused him access to Iris' toys or computer, leaving him no choice but to attempt to interact with the grownups.

After a couple of dinners, he'd begun making excuses to not accompany Juliet, which served a dual purpose—it ensured peaceful meals and allowed Juliet the freedom to enjoy the company of adults in a social setting. Karen suspected their dinners had a way of shining a harsher light on the younger woman's relationship with Shawn, exposing the weaknesses and stagnation, especially when compared to what she and Carlton had.

Granted, the relationship had lasted far longer than either she or Carlton had expected, but they both had a feeling it might be on its last legs, especially with the news Juliet came bearing.

"I've been invited to a seminar and training course at Quantico."

Carlton paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "How long?"

"Six weeks."

He nodded, but it was Karen who answered. "Not quite half of what the regular training course is."

Juliet nodded. "Miller's going to take my place while I'm gone."

"It's a good move," she said. "Both taking the training course and leaving Miller in charge. Not that you asked my opinion," she added with an apologetic smile. "Sorry—still appears to be an occupational hazard."

Juliet grinned. "I wouldn't have said anything—especially around here—if I didn't expect an opinion."

"Where's Quantico, Aunt Jules?" Iris asked.

"Virginia, just outside Washington, D.C."

"Will you come back?"

"Oh, yeah." But it wasn't an entirely convincing response.

It was enough, however, to satisfy Iris, who smiled and picked up her empty plate. "May I be excused?"

Karen nodded, but kept her gaze on Carlton who'd gone still, retreating within himself even as he went through the motions of eating and promising Iris that yes, they'd definitely read another chapter—maybe two—at bedtime, but in the meantime, she could watch TV in his and Karen's room.

It wasn't until they'd cleaned up and were settled in the living room, a fire chasing away the slight November chill carried in by the ocean, that he finally aired _his_ opinion.

"It's a good move for you."

Juliet cradled her wine glass, appearing to study the play of firelight across the ruby surface. "I know."

"You're going to get noticed."

Once upon a time, Karen mused, Juliet might have either blushed and fumbled some sort of dismissive comment or stiffened with a bravado meant to mask her fear. Now, she did neither of these, but rather smiled down into her wine and quietly repeated, "I know."

"Hell, I'm going to miss you." Carlton's voice was gruff and the glass in his hand shook slightly. Setting her own glass on the coffee table, Karen slid from the sofa to join him on the floor, settling herself between his legs and leaning back against his chest.

"I'm not gone yet, partner." But a definite thread of steel belied her teasing words. She would leave—likely for good—and it would be sooner rather than later. They'd stay in touch, of that Karen was now absolutely certain, but Juliet O'Hara would be starting a new chapter of her life far away from Santa Barbara.

It would be interesting to see what Shawn would choose to do—whether this would be the straw that broke the adolescent back enough to allow an actual adult to emerge. Or whether it would it finally spell a definitive end. Either way, it could only be to Juliet's benefit. Shawn had had his way for far too long, and for that, Karen sent up a silent apology to Juliet and Carlton and hell, the Universe in general, for her part in allowing it to happen.

"The mayor might approach you again," Juliet said to Carlton.

"I doubt it. But out of some frosty chance in Hades he does, he'll get the same answer he got a year ago," Carlton replied easily, but every bit as steely as Juliet. "I've found my place, Juliet."

He lifted Karen's hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to the back, just above where her rings rested. With a grateful sigh, she rubbed her thumb along his ring, the simple white gold band engraved with a Celtic knot pattern that wove into a Claddagh—not an exact match, but a harmonious complement to her rings.

"It's past time for you to find yours, partner."

While it would still be several weeks before she left for her training and God only knew how much longer still before Juliet left for good, Karen nevertheless made a point to leave the former partners alone at evening's end, making her goodbyes as she plead exhaustion.

Karen could tell Juliet knew what she was up to—as did Carlton, evinced by his grateful smile—but a final look over her shoulder that revealed the two of them speaking intently, Carlton's dark head leaning in close to Juliet's lighter, before they reached for each other in a mutual hug, reassured her she'd done the right thing, leaving them alone.

She was lying in bed, watching the play of light and shadows through the curtains, when he finally entered their room, quietly closing the door behind himself.

"Iris down?"

"Yeah. We only read a chapter. I told her I'd make it up to her tomorrow."

She rolled over and watched him move through the room, stripping off his clothes and going into the bathroom. Finally, clad in a pair of flannel pajama pants, he joined her in bed, immediately reaching across its width to gather her close. His sigh, as her bed-warmed body met his chilly skin, was long and heartfelt and spoke to his deep exhaustion.

It had been a long week capped off by a deeply surprising evening.

Tenderly she stroked the silvery-white hair at his temples. "You okay?

His brows lowered in familiar fashion, but his voice held a note of genuine surprise as he said, "Yeah, of course. Why?"

Karen leveled a stare at him, until he relented, his brows relaxing.

"Seriously, sweetheart, I'm okay." Rolling more completely over her, he propped himself on an elbow. She looked up into his face, traced the fine lines and the freckles and the narrow curve of his mouth within his beard. Most of all, she looked into his eyes, knowing he couldn't—that he wouldn't—hide anything from her.

Satisfied that he really was okay, she said, "Still, it's a helluva bombshell."

"Yeah." His free hand captured one of hers, bringing them to rest on the pillow beside her head. "But a good one. A necessary one."

"I think so, too." She sighed. "But it'll mean our last real connection to the department is gone."

"Unless you count Strode."

She lifted a brow. "Do you?"

He snorted. "Not in a million years."

"Didn't think so." She fell silent, the hand she'd had on his face dropping to his bare chest where she stroked meditatively, the combination of coarse hair and warm skin serving to settle her her. "It's a little sad, though. The end of an era. It was such a big part of us for so long."

"It was," he agreed. "A lot happened to us there—separately and together."

"But you know... more happened to us together away from the department," she said slowly.

"Mmm… yep." He'd lowered his head and was placing light, butterfly kisses along the line of her collarbones.

Amidst the delicious sensation, a horrifying thought occurred. "This doesn't mean we have to send He Who Must Not Be Named a Thank You gift, does it?" Since their involvement could at least be indirectly traced back to his complete and utter asshattery.

"Mmm… nope." More kisses, down into the cleavage revealed by the cotton camisole she wore to sleep in as he freed his hand to begin an assault from the hem.

"Thank God," she sighed, as much from relief as growing arousal.

She rested her hand on his head, her fingers twisting in the soft waves of his hair. "Carlton?"

He propped his chin on her stomach and gazed up at her, his eyes, even in the low light, glowing with a pale blue intensity.

"Remind me tomorrow there's something I want to tell you."

His hand stroked soothing circles on bare abdomen. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah… it's just a little something I need to tell you before I forget."

"But it's not meant for in here," he said, eyes lighting with understanding.

"No."

She would tell him tomorrow about Marlowe—and then they could finally fully close the door on their pasts and go on building their future.

Together.

Always.

_**FIN**_

* * *

**AN:** Well, that was a bit longer than expected, especially since it went a bit tricksy on me and took some unexpected turns. Some melancholy turns, too, I suspect brought on by Maggie Lawson's impending departure and my suspicion that the upcoming S8 will, indeed, be the show's final season.

Hopefully, you all enjoyed it (all three…maybe four of you *g*) and while I do have them all riding happily off into the sunset here, I'll hopefully still be hit with inspiration for other stories. Thank you all for reading and reviewing!


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